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GEMS 



THE MODERN POETS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 



BY S. C. HALL. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY AND HART. 

1842. 



! • 



0XFX 



i^ia 



C. Sherman & Co. Piiriteirs, 19 St. James Street. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

THE EARL OF EGREMONT, 

ETC. ETC. 
THE BENEFICENT PATRON 

OF PR0FESS0R8 OF LITERATURE AND ART IN 
GREAT BRITAIN, 

THIS VOLUME 

IS GRATEFULLY AND RESPECTFULLY 
DEDICATED BY 

THE EDITOR. 



PREFACE. 



With scarcely an exception, the Editor has been 
favoured by the living Poets with memoranda for his 
brief biographies ; and, with most of them, he has the 
honour to be personally acquainted. As regards facts, 
therefore, he has gone upon sure ground; and, as it 
was his duty to introduce into the volume only such 
as have achieved and merited fame, he trusts that 
his criticisms will be neither displeasing to them, nor 
unsatisfactory to the Public. 

The Editor earnestly, and with some degree of con- 
fidence, hopes that his Selections from the Modern 
Poets may have the effect of directing attention to the 
sources whence they are drawn, — of increasing that 
taste for Poetry which the " scientific spirit of the age" 
has lessened, — and of adding to the circulation of the 
"Works," by showing the enjoyment and instruction 
that may be derived from them. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



WORDSWORTH. 




The Ebb Tide . 


44 






The Victory 


45 


Sonnet .... 


15 


The Battle of Blenheim . 


47 


Ode. Intimations of Immor- 




To a Bee 


49 


tality, from Recollections 




Sonnet .... 


50 


of early Childhood 


15 






Lucy .... 


22 






Sonnets : — 




MOORE. 




Scorn not the Sonnet 


23 






It is a Beauteous Evening 


24 


Written in an Album 


53 


The World is too much 




I saw thy Form in Youth- 




with us . . . 


24 


ful Prime 


55 


London, 1802 


25 


I saw from the Beach . 


56 


Composed upon West- 




This Life is all chequered 




minster Bridge . 


25 


with Pleasures and Woes 


57 


Great Men 


26 


St. Jerome's Love 


58 


To a Skylark . 


26 


Oft, in the Stilly Night . 


59 


She Dwelt among the un- 




When 'midst the Gay I meet 


60 


trodden Ways 


27 


SHELLEY. 




BYRON. 












Venice .... 


63 


Inscription on the Monu- 




The Cloud . 


64 


ment of a Dog 


30 


An Exhortation 


66 


The Dream . 


31 


Mutability 


67 


Farewell 


37 


To Night .... 


68 






To a Skylark 


69 


SOUTHEY. 




COLERIDGE. 




Sunrise 


40 






Remembrance . 


40 


The Garden of Boccaccio . 


76 


Hannah 


42 


Love .... 


77 



VIU 



CONTENTS. 



The Nightingale . . 81 
Lines, written in the Album 
at Elbingerode, in the 
Hartz Forest . . .81 
Recollections of Love . 85 



MILMAN. 

Hymn .... 89 
The Merry Heart . . 89 
The Love of God . .91 



ELLIOTT. 

The Wonders of the Lane 95 
The Dying Boy to the Sloe 

Blossom . . .98 

A Poet's Epitaph . . 101 
To the Bramble Flower . 102 



LAMB. 

The Gipsy's Malison . 105 
Hester . . . .105 
Sonnets . . . .106 
On an Infant Dying as soon 
as Born . . .108 



MONTGOMERY. 

The Grave . . .113 

Friends .... 116 
Hannah .... 117 



WHITE. 

Description of a Summer's 

Eve ... . 122 
The Savoyard's Return , 123 



WILSON. 

From Edith and Nora 
Lines written in a Highland 
Glen . . . . 
A Churchyard Dream . 
The Widowed Mother 
The Three Seasons of Love 



CRABBE. 



The Sands . 
Roger Cuff 
Stanzas 
Woman . 



127 

128 
129 
132 
133 



138 
139 
142 
144 



SCOTT. 

Farewell to the Muse . 149 

Hunting Song . . .150 

Lochinvar . . . 151 
Lullaby on an Infant Chief 153 

Hellvellyn . . . .153 

Jock of Ilazeldean . . 155 

Nora's Vow . . .156 



SOTHEBY. 

Salvator. . . .160 

Rome . . . .161 

The Grotto of Egeria . 164 

KEATS. 

Madeline ; from " Isabella" 168 

Ode to a Nightingale . 168 

Ode on a Grecian Urn .171 

Sonnets . . . .173 

Stanzas . . . .174 

To Autumn . . .175 



CONTENTS. 


ix 


HOGG. 




CLARE. 




The Stranded Ship . 


179 


June 


. 225 


The Wee Housie . 


180 


The Quiet Mind . 


226 


The Broken Hearf . 


181 


Mary Lee 


228 


Mary Gray . 


182 






The Skylark 


183 






An Arabian Song , 


184 


NORTON. 








The Mourners 


233 






The Mother's Heart . 


. 234 


HEMANS. 




The Child of Earth 


236 


Cathedral Hymn 


188 






TheSongofNiffht. 


189 


ROGERS. 




The Hebrew Mother . 


191 






The Captive Knight 


194 


An Italian Song 


241 


The Trumpet . 


196 


On a Tear . 


241 


The Return to Poetry . 


197 


To an Old Oak 


. 242 


The Treasures of the Deep 


197 


LANDON. 




CUNNINGHAM. 




Little Red Riding Hood 
The First Grave, in the new 


247 


The Town and Country 




Churchyard at Brompton 


248 


Child .... 


201 


The Moon 


250 


Awake, my Love . 


204 


Venice .... 


251 


The Lass of Gleneslan Mill 205 | 






The Poet's Bridal Day Song 


206 






A wet Sheet and a flowing 




CROLY. 




Sea .... 


208 


The Tuileries, from "Paris 








in 1815" 


256 






Pericles and Aspasia 


257 


HUNT. 




Lines Written at Spithead 


258 






Leonidas 


259 


Songs and Chorus of the 
Flowers .... 




The Death of Leonidas . 


260 


211 






To a Child, during Sickness 


217 






The Glove and the Lions . 


219 


WOLFE. 




The Fish, the Man, and the 








Spirit. 


220 


The Burial of Sir John 




Abou Ben Adhem and the 




Moore . . . . 


266 


Angel .... 


222 


Song .... 


267 



X CONTENTS. 




LANDOR. 




Summer Evening, at Home 310 






Winter Evening, at Home 


311 


Clifton 


271 


Sonnets : — 




The Dragon Fly . 


271 


Time 


311 


To lanthe . 


272 


Dover Cliffs 


312 


Fffisulan Idyl 


273 


April .... 


313 


The Maid's Lament . 


275 


May .... 


313 


To Corinth . 


276 


Netley Abbey 


314 


The Briar . 


277 


Remembrance 


314 


Sixteen .... 


278 


TIGHE. 




CAMPBELL. 












Hagar in the Desert . 


318 


To the Evening Star . 


. 281 


From " Psyche" . 


320 


To the Rainbow . 


281 


On Receiving a Branch of 


Ye Mariners of England 


283 


Mezereon, which flowered 


I 


Exile of Erin 


285 


at Woodstock, December 




Hohenlinden 


286 


1809 . 


' 324 


The Last Man 


287 






The Soldier's Dream . 


290 


WOLCOT. 




PROCTER. 




Fighting Dogs . 


328 






To Julia 


329 


The Fisherman . 


294 


Song .... 


330 


Song .... 


295 


Madrigal 


330 


Woman 


295 


A Pastoral Song 


. 331 


Stanzas 


296 


Song .... 


332 


The Blood Horse . 


297 


Economy . 


333 


King Death 


298 






Dirge .... 


299 






Serenade . 


300 


POLLOK. 




Life .... 


301 






To a Wounded Singing 




Maternal Love . 


337 


Bird . . . 


302 


The Resurrection . 


337 


An Invocation to Birds . 


303 


HOOD. 




BOWLES. 












To a Cold Beauty . 


345 


St. Michael's Mount . 


307 


Ruth .... 


346 


Chantrey's Sleeping Chil 




Ballad 


346 


dren 


307 


I Remember, I Remember 


347 


Restoration of Malraesburj 




Ode . 


348 


Abbey . 


309 


Ballad .... 


352 





CONTENTS. 


XI 


DIBDIN. 




Love and Death 


378 


I Sailed from the Downs 
Tom Bowling 
Lovely Nan 

Blow High, Blow Low . 
Bold Jack 


. 355 
356 

. 357 
359 

. 360 


HOWITT. 

An Old Man's Story . 
Mountain Children 


381 

390 


BAILLIE. 




HERVEY. 




To a Child ... 363 
The Kitten . . .364 
Welcome Bat and Owlet 
Gray . . . .368 


A Twilight Landscape 
TJie Convict Ship . 
I am all Alone . 
She Sleeps, that Still and 
Placid Sleep . 


394 
395 
396 

398 


TENNYSON. 




BAYLY. 




Buonaparte 

Mariana 

The Merman . 

The Mermaid 

Lilian 


. 371 
371 

. 374 
375 

. 377 


The Gipsies' Haunt . 
The First Gray Hair . 
The Neglected Child . 
Upon thy Truth Relying 
Oh say not 'twere a keener 
Blow . 


402 
403 
405 

407 

408 



GEMS OF THE MODERN POETS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 



WORDSWORTH. 



William Wordsworth, who is descended from a family of high 
respectabihty in Cumberland, was born at Cockermouth, on the 
7th of April, 1770. He was educated with his almost equally dis- 
tinguished brother, — Dr. Christopher Wordsworth, — at Hawkes- 
worth School, in Lancashire ; and was entered at St. John's, Cam- 
bridge, in 1787, where he took his degree. Since the beginning 
of the year 1800, he has "had his home," either at his present 
residence, Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, or within tw» miles of it. 
We can afford but a small space to a Memoir of the Poet ; — small 
as it is, however, it will suffice. His life has been retired and 
uniform : he has been subjected to few trials ; — possessed of 
" health, peace, and competence," his course has been as smooth, 
even, and tranquil, as that of a " silent river." 

Mr. Wordsworth is above the middle size. His features are 
strongly marked; but their expression is, like his poetry, contem- 
plative rather than energetic. He has a calm look, and a gentle 
manner ; his action is persuasive, and the tones of his voice pecu- 
liarly so. We have known him only amid the uncongenial scenes 
of a great city ; but have been told that, among the hills and val- 
leys of his native Westmoreland, his society is as a mildly health- 
ful breeze, and his conversation as a delicious melody. He has 
ever been " a Poet for Poets :" from the beginning of his career, 
he " FIT audience found though few ;" but his reception as a Poet 
for universal man, is of very recent date. His lack of popularity 
was owing, partly to that taste for the French school of poetry — 
which was still lingering among us from the times of Dryden and 
Pope — and partly to the excess to which Mr. Wordsworth pushed 
his simplicity, as if in scorn of that school, which naturally enough 
irritated the wits and others wiio had been bred up in its conven- 
tional elegancies. He has since given indications of a conscious- 
ness of having gone a little too far ; and they, on the other hand, 
have grown complimentary ; meanwhile, he waited patiently for 
the turn of the tide that was to bear him into a crowd of devoted 



14 WORDSWORTH. 

admirers. He knew it would come at last ; and went on writing, 
in spite of the sneers of those who either could not, or would not, 
understand him. He has lived to enjoy a large portion of his 
anticipated triumph ; and — for he is not an aged man — will proba- 
bly continue with us until he finds himself the most popular Poet 
of the existing age, and second only to him who is " for all time." 
The style of Wordsworth is essentially vernacular, — at once 
vigorous and simple. He is ever true to nature ; and, therefore, if 
we except Shakspeare, no writer is so often quoted : passages from 
his poems have become familiar as household words, and are per- 
petually called into use to give strong and apt expression to the 
thoughts and feelings of others. This is, perhaps, the highest com- 
pliment a Poet can receive ; it has been liberally paid to him even 
by those who know little of the rich mine of which they are but 
specimens. With him the commonest objects, — 

" Bare trees, and mountains bare. 
The grass, and the green fields," 

are things sacred : he has an alchymy of his own, by which he draws 
from them " a kind of quintessence ;" and, rejecting the "gross mat- 
ter," presents to us the purest ore. " He sees nothing loftier than 
human hopes, — nothing deeper than the human heart ;" and while 
he worships nature, he so paints her aspect to others, that he may 
succeed in " linking to her fair works the human soul." His poems 
are full of beauties peculiarly their own, — of original thoughts, of 
fine sympathies, and of grave yet cheerful wisdom. 

No man has received finer compliments from his contempora- 
ries ; the most recent, and not the least worthy, was paid to him by 
the author of " Ion," in the course of a speech on the subject of 
copyright, delivered in the House of Commons, on the 18th of May, 
1837. " He has supplied the noblest antidote to the freezing effects 
of the scientific spirit of the age; and, while he has done justice to 
the poetry of greatness, has cast a glory around the lowest condi- 
lions of humanity, and traced out the subtle links by which they 
are connected with the highest." The following passage is from 
a poem addressed to him, by Mrs. Hemans. 

" True bard and holy ! Thou art even as one 
Who, by some secret gift of soul, or eye. 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun 
Sees where the springs of living waters lie." 



WORDSWORTH. 



SONNET. 



Adieu, Rydalian laurels ! that have grown 
And spread as if ye knew that days might come 
When ye would shelter in a happy home 
On this fair mount, a Poet of your own, 
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 
To sue the God ; but, haunting your green shade 
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid 
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self sown. 
Farewell ! no minstrels now with harp new-strung 
For summer wandering quit their household bowers; 
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 
To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours 
Her spirit, while she crosses lonely moors, 
Or, musing, sits forsaken halls amonff. 



ODE. 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FR03I RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
CHILDHOOD, 

" The child is father of the man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and spring. 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 



16 WORDSWORTH. 

It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare : 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth, — 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong; 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the world is gay : 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 

Shepherd-boy ! 
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other made; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 



WORDSWORTH. 17 

My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss — I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh, -evil day! if I were sullen 
While earth herself is adorning 
This sweet May-morning-, 
And the children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear — with joy I hear I 

But there's a tree, of many one, 
A single field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream 1 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
And cometh from afar; 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy I 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy : 
2* 



18 W ORDS^Y ORTH. 

The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 

And, even with something of a mother's mind. 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely nurse doth all she can 

To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,— 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art: 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside. 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part, — 



WORDS W R T H. 19 

Fillino- from time to time his ' humorous stage' 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As. if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal m'nd ; — 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the, darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day,-^ — a master o'er a slave, — 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 



20 WORDSWORTH. 

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness : nor mad endeavour. 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young lambs bound 



WORDS W R T H. 21 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng; 

Ye that pipe, and ye that play, 

Ye tliat through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright, 
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, — rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, — 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquished one delight 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality: 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, — 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



22 WORDSWORTH. 



LUCY. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take, — 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
That wild with glee across the lawn, 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, — 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her, — for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form. 

By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place, 



WORDSWORTH. 23 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty, born of murmuring sound, 
Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake, — the work was done ; 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, — and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be ! 



SONNETS. 
SCORN NOT THE SONNET. 

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowmed. 

Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 

Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 

With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 



24 W R D S W R T H. 

The Thing becama a trumpet, whence he blew 
Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few. • 



IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea ; 

Listen ! — the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child I dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine ; 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year. 

And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, 

God bein^ with th-e when we know it not. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts av/ay, a sordid boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Paoran, suckled in a creed outworn ; 



VORDS WORTH. 25 

So might I, standing- on tliis pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



LONDON, 1802. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 
England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea 
Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 

Earth has not any thing to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
3 



26 WORDSWORTH. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



GREAT MEN. 

Great men have been amongst us ; hands that penned 

And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none ; 

The latter Sydney, Marvel, Harrington, 

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 

These moralists could act and comprehend : 

They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 

In splendour ; what strength was, that would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange. 

Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 

Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change I 

No single volume paramount, no code, 

No master spirit, no determined road ; 

But equally a want of books and men ! 



TO A SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound 1 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 



WORDSWORTH. 27 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring- warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood, — 
A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine : 
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid, whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, — and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh. 

The difference to me ! 



28 BYRON. 

George Gordon Byron was born in Holies Street, London, on the 
22d of January, 1788. He was the grandson of the celebrated 
Admiral, and succeeded his great uncle, William Lord Byron, in 
1798. On his elevation to the peerage, he was removed from the 
care of his mother, and placed at Harrow, by his guardian, — the 
Earl of Carlisle. In 1805, he was entered at Trinity College, 
Cambridge ; and took up his permanent residence at Newstead 
Abbey, Ihe family seat. In 1807, he published at Newark, his 
" Hours of Idleness ;" they were attacked with considerable bit- 
terness in the " Edinburgh Review," and his memorable " Satire" 
followed. His various "Works" succeeded with v/onderful rapidity. 
In 1815, he married the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank Noel: a 
separation took place soon afterwards, and the Poet went abroad, 
— residing at Geneva, and in various cities of Italy. In August, 
1823, he embarked in the cause of Greece; and died at Missolonghi, 
on the 19th of April, 1824. 

Lord Byron was, thus, a young man when he died. Personal 
descriptions of the Poet are abundant. In 1823, Lady Blessington 
was intimately acquainted with him at Genoa. According to her 
account, his appearance was highly prepossessing ; " his head," 
she says, " is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, and noble ; 
his eyes are gray, and full of expression, but one is visibly larger 
than the other ; his mouth is the most remarkable feature in his 
face — the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and the corners descend- 
ing ; the lips full and finely cut; his chin is large and well shaped ; 
his face is peculiarly pale." She adds that, " although slightly 
lame, the deformity of his foot is but little remarkable." 

The biographies of Lord Byron are almost as nume ous as his 
Works. The wonderful genius of the Poet procured for him an 
extent of popularity unparalleled in his age ; and the public sought 
eagerly for every anecdote that could afford the smallest insight 
into his character. Few men could have borne so searching a test. 
His biograp ers, without exception, have arrived at conclusions 
prejudicial to his character; it is, therefore, impossible for an 
Editor who would sum up theii evidence, to recommend any 
other verdict, than that which has been given. It is time to dis- 
card the old superstition, nil nisi bonum, as at once unphilosophical 



29 



and derogatory to the character of any man, who seeks to live " for 
aye, in Fame's eternal temple." Nil nisi verum, should be the 
motto of the dead. It may be ungracious to disobey the mandate, 

" Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower." 

but the warning cannot have reference to the spear of Ithuriel. 
Truth is so precious, that it never costs too much. We protest at 
the outset of our labours against all reference to private character, 
and comment upon private life ; but we must always except cases 
where they are mixed up with published writings which influence, 
and are designed to influence, the universal mind. Many of the 
Poems of Lord Byron have a dangerous tendency : they are cal- 
culated to remove the hideous features of Vice, and present it, if 
not in a tempting, at least in a natural and pardonable light. 
Whether it was a genuine sentiment, or a gross affectation, it 
matters not ; but it was the frequent boast of the_,Poet, that he 
scorned and hated human kind ; and out of this feeling, or this 
pretension, grew his labours to corrupt it. It was not alone against 
THINGS held sacred by society, that his spleen and venom were 
directed : he strove to render odious some of the best and purest 
men that have ever lived ; and his attacks were not the momentary 
ebullitions of dislike, but the produce of deep and settled hatred, 
— the more bitter in proportion as the cause was small. To the 
various circumstances that are said to have warped his mind, we 
cannot here refer. We perform an imperative duty, in a work 
which must find its way among the young and enthusiastic, when 
we warn the reader of his exquisite poetry, that danger lurks under 
the leaves. The Poems of Byron will live, as he had a right to 
anticipate they would, " with his land's language." The amazing 
power he possessed of searching into and pourtraying character^ 
— his prodigious skill in versification, — his fine perception of the 
sublime and beautiful in nature, — his graceful and unforced wit, — 
his deep readings of human passion, — his accurate knowledge of 
the secret movements of the human heart, — were so many keys to 
his wonderful and universal success.* 

* Of the many beautiful editions of Byron's works which Mr. Murray has 
published, the last, in one volume Js tlie most complete and admirable. It 
is an exquisite specimen of typography. 

a* 



BYRON. 

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A DOG. 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 
And storied urns record who rests below; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
Not what he w^as, but what he should have been : 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 
The first to w^elcome, foremost to defend, 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
While man, vain insect I hopes to be forgiven, 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh, man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power. 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
Degraded mass of animated dust! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
Pass on, — it honours none you wish to mourn ; 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 



BYRON. 31 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold : sleep hath its own world, 

A boundary between the thing's misnamed 

Death and existence ; sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality, 

And dreams in their developement have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy : 

They leave a weight upon our waking- thoughts. 

They take a weight from off our waking toils. 

They do divide our being ; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, 

And look like heralds of eternity : 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they will, 

And shake us with the vision that's gone by, — 

The dread of vanish'd shadows. Are they so ] 

Is not the past all shadow] What are they 1 

Creations of the mind ? The mind can make 

Substance, and people planets of its own 

With beings brighter than have been, — and give 

A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 

I would recall a vision which I dream'd 

Perchanc ■ in sleep, — for in itself a thought, 

A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 

And curdles a long life into one hour. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
Green and of mild declivity, — the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 



32 BYRON. 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most livino- landscape, n 1 th- wave 
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, — 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing; the one, on all that was beneath — 
Fair as herself— bu the boy gazed on her: 
And both were young, and one was beautiful; 
And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; — 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years ; and, to his eye, 
There was but one beloved face on earth — 
And that was shining on him : he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
She was his voice;— he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words: she was his sight, 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. 
Which colour'd all his objects;— he had ceased 
To live within himself: she was his life, — 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
Which terminated all ! upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 
And his cheek change tempestuously ;— his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him ! to her he was 
Even as a brother,— but no more : 'twas much, 



33 



For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-horjour'd race. It was a name 

Wliich pleased him, and yet pleased him not, — and why? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another ! even now she loved another ; 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique oratory stood 
The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion, — then arose again, 
And, with his teeth and quivering hands, did tear 
What he had written ; but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused 
The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, — and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved ! she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken'd with her shadow ; and she saw 
That he was wretched, — but she saw not all. 
He rose, and, with a cold and gentle grasp. 
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 



34 BYRON. 

Was traced,— and then it faded as it came: 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retired, — but not as bidding her adieu ; 

For they did part with mutual smiles : he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way, 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more I 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been: on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer! 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me ; but he was 
A part of all, — and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them : by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man, 
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky — 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love was wed with one 
Who did not love her better : in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 



BYRON. 35 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 
Daughters and sons of beauty, — but, behold! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
What could her grief be?— she had all she loved; 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ] — she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind, — a spectre of the past. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand 
Before an altar, with a gentle bride : 
Her face was fair, — but was not that which made 
The starlight of his boyhood! as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then, 
As in that hour, a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came; 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, — but heard not his own words; 
And all things reel'd around him ! he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have been ; 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — . 



36 



All thing-s pertaining to that place and hour, 
x\nd her who was his destiny came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
What business had they there at such a time ] 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love, — oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul : her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, — 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth : she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms — impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight — familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ! but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness ; and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift : 
What is it but the telescope of truth ] 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was alone as heretofore ; 
The beings that surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ! he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, — compass'd round 
With hatred and contention : pain was mix'd 
In all which was served up to him, until, 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power, — 
But were a kind of nutriment : he lived 
Through that which had been death to many men, 



BYRON. 37 

And made him friends of mountains ! with the stars 

And the quick spirit of the universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries : 

To him the book of night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret, — Be it so. 

My dream was past : it had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost like a reality : the one 
To end in madness, — both in misery ! 



FAREWELL ! 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For others' weal avail'd on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air — 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 

Are in that word — Farewell ! Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain. 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain. 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain, — 

I only feel— Farewell ! Farewell ! 
4 



38 S U T H E Y. 

Robert Southey was born in Bristol, on the 12th of August, 
1774. Having given early tokens of that genius which has since 
placed his name foremost among British Worthies, his friends 
resolved that the advantages of a liberal education should be 
added to those which Nature had bestowed upon him, and sent 
him in 1788, to Westminster School. In 1792, he was entered at 
Baliol College, Oxford. During his residence in the University, he 
became infected with Jacobinical principles : but if some of his 
earlier productions contributed to disseminate pernicious doctrines, 
he has amply compensated mankind by the labours of a long life 
in the cause of Virtue. In 1796, his first great poem, "Joan of 
Arc," appeared ; and liis fame was completely established, when, 
in 1801, the romance of "Thalaba" issued from the press. He 
has since been continually before the world ; and there is scarcely 
a branch of literature to which he has not contributed, — a list of 
his publications would fill this page. In 1813, Southey accepted 
the office of Poet Laureat, on the death of Pye, — and for nearly 
the first time, during at least a century, the office, instead of con- 
ferring received dignity. 

Southey is tall and handsome, with a clear and noble forehead ; 
an aquiline nose ; a profusion of hair ; and uncommonly bright eyes: 
his voice is musical, full of gentleness and persuasion, and his 
smile is as winning as it is sweet. His hair, once a curling and 
glossy black, curls still, but is white as snow ; and his step has lost 
some of its elasticity, — but his eyes are as bright, and his smile 
as winning, as ever. He is rarely seen in the great world. His 
distaste of the turmoils of life induced him to decline the offer of 
a seat in the House of Commons, to which he had been elected; — 
apart from the bustle and feverish excitement of a city, he pursues 
his gentle and useful course from year to year : 

" And to his mountains and liis forest rude 
Ciiaunts in sweet melody his classic song." 

He has led the life of a scholar with as much steadiness of purpose 
and devotion, as if he had bound himself to his books by a religious 
vow. His works are sufficient to form a library ; they are proofs 
of his amazing industry, not less than his vast and comprehensive 



S U T H E Y. 39 

learning. His wonderful genius may excite our admiration ; but 
the extent of his " profitable labour" is, indeed, prodigious. There 
is nothing like it we believe in the history of the human mind. 
His character is as unspotted as that of any public man — living or 
dead. The world is aware that he has had some enemies : no one 
ever deserved them less. His friends are numerous, devoted, and 
firm. No one ever earned them better, or merited them more : 

" We soon live down 
Evil or good report, if undeserved." 

His political opponents have tendered evidence to the estimable 
character of both his head and heart. One of the harshest arraign- 
ers of what he calls the inconsistency of Dr. Southey — as if that 
were inconsistency which induces to leave a path after it is known 
to be the wrong one — states, that "in all the relations and charities 
of private life, he is correct, exemplary, generous, just." He is 
one of the leading critics of the age; and, although there is abun- 
dant proof of his generous zeal in aiding young talent, there was 
never attached to him the suspicion of depressing it. The career 
of Southey is the best answer to the absurd, but too generally re- 
ceived opinion, that a critic is of necessity acrimonious or unjust. 

Of late years, the prose of Southey has been preferred to his 
poetry. It rarely happens that there is a preference without a 
disparagement. No Poet in the present or the past century, has 
written three such poems as Thalaba, Kehama, and Roderic. 
Others have more excelled in delineating what they find before 
them in life ; but none have given such proofs of extraordinary 
power in creating. He has been called diffuse, because there is 
a spaciousness and amplitude about his poetry — as if concentra- 
tion was the highest quality of a writer. He lays all his thoughts 
before us ; but they never rush forth tumultuously. He excels 
in unity of design and congruity of character ; and never did 
Poet more adequately express heroic fortitude, and generous 
affections. He has not, however, limited his pen to grand paint- 
ings of epic character. Among his shorter productions will be 
found some light and graceful sketches, full of beauty and feeling, 
and not the less valuable because they invariably aim at promot- 
ing virtue. 



SOUTHEY. 



SUNRISE. 



I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto thee 
In adoration man should bow the knee, 

And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ; 
For like a God thou art, and on thy way 
Of glory sheddest with benignant ray, 

Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. 

No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, — 
These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day ; 
But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud 

And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowers 
Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain, 

Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers ! 
O lord of light! put forth thy beams again. 

For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours. 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Man hath a weary pilgrimage 

As through the world he wends, 
On every stage from youth to age 

Still discontent attends ; 
With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before, 
And still remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 



sou THEY. 41 

To school the little exile goes, 

Torn from his mother's arms, — 
What then shall soothe his earliest woes. 

When novelty hath lost its charms 1 
Condemn'd to sutler through the day 
Restraints which no rewards repay, 

And cares where love has no concern : 
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours 

Before his wished return. 
From hard control and tyrant rules, 
The unfeeling discipline of schools, 

In thought he loves to roam, 
And tears will struggle in his eye 
While he remembers with a sigh 

The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life 

Torment the restless mind ; 
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart 

Its consolation find 7 
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells. 

Life's summer prime of joy 1 
Ah no ! for hopes too long delay'd, 
And feelings blasted or betray'd, 

The fabled bliss destroy; 
And Youth remembers with a sigh 
The careless days of infancy. 

Maturer Manhood now arrives. 

And other thoughts come on, 
But with the baseless hopes of Youth 

Its generous warmth is gone ; 
Cold calculating cares succeed, 
The timid thought, the wary deed, 
4* 



42 S U T H E Y. 

The dull realities of truth ; 
Back on the past he turns his eye ; 
Remembering with an envious sigh 

The happy dreams of Youth. 

So reaches he the latter stage 
Of this our mortal pilgrimage, 

With feeble step and slow ; 
New ills that latter stage await, 
And old Experience learns too late 

That all is vanity below. 
Life's vain delusions are gone by, 

Its idle hopes are o'er. 
Yet Age remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 



HANNAH. 

Passing across a green and lonely lane 
A funeral met our view. It was not here 
A sight of every day, as in the streets 
Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd 
Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, 
They answer'd, of the village, who had pined 
Through the long course of eighteen months 
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death 
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way 
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk 
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot, 
We wore away the time. But it was eve 
When homewardly I went, and in the air 
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade 
Which makes the eye turn inward : hearing then 



S U T H E Y. 43 

Over the vale the heavy toll of death 

Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead ; 

I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. 

She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains. 

And he who should liave cherish'd her, far off 

Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one, 

Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 

Were busy with her name. She had to bear 

The sharper sorrow of neglect from him 

Whom slie had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, 

But only once that drop of comfort came 

To mingle with her cup of wretchedness ; 

And when his parents had some tidings from him, 

There was no mention of poor Hannah there. 

Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind 

Than silence. So she pined and pined away, 

And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd ; 

Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest 

From labour, knitting there with lifted arms, 

Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother 

Omitted no kind office, w^orking for her. 

Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd 

Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong 

The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay 

On the sick bed of poverty, worn out 

With her long suffering and those painful thoughts 

Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, 

That she could make no effort to express 

Affection for her infant ; and the child, 

Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, 

Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too 

Had grown indifferent to all things of earth ; 

Finding her only comfort in the thought 

Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. 



44 S U T H E Y. 

There had she now, in that last home been laid, 
And all was over now, — sickness and grief, 
Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence : 
Their work was done. The schoolboys as they sport 
In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away 
From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; 
Nature would do that office soon ; an none 
Who trod upon the senseless turf would think 
Of what a world of woes lay buried there ! 



THE EBB TIDE. 

Slowly thy flowing tide 
Came in old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, 
As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, 

Behold the gentle rise. 

With many a stroke and strong 
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars. 
And yet the eye beheld them labouring long- 
Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along ; 
The solitary helmsman sits to guide, 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks that lay 
So silent late the shallow current roars ; 
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way. 

Through wider-spreading shores. 



SOUTHEY. 45 

Avon ! I gaze and know 
The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way ; 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms which long have stood, 
And slow to strength and power attain'd at last. 
Thus from the summit of high fortune's jflood 

Ebb to their ruin fast. 

Thus like thy flow appears 
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; 
Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years 

Then hasten to old age ! 



THE VICTORY. 

Hark, — how the church bells' thundering harmony 
Stuns the glad ear I tidings of joy have come, — 
Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships 
Met on the element ; — they met, they fought 
A desperate fight ! — good tidings of great joy ! 
Old England triumph'd ! — yet another day 
Of glory for the ruler of the waves ! 
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, 
They have their passing paragraphs of praise. 
And are forgotten ! 

There was one who died 
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name 
No proud historian's page will chronicle. 
Peace to his honest soul ! I read his name, — 



46 S U T H E Y. 

'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God 
The sound was not familiar to mine ear. 
But it was told me, after, that this man 
Was one whom lawful violence had forced 
From his own home, and wife, and little ones, 
Who by his labour lived ; that he was one 
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel 
A husband's love, — a father's anxiousness ; 
That, from the wages of his toil, he fed 
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them 
At midnight, when he trod the silent deck 
With him he valued ;— talk of them, of joys 
Which he had known, — oh God ! and of the hour 
When they should meet again, till his full heart, 
His manly heart, at last would overflow — 
Even like a child's — with very tenderness. 
Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly 
It came, and merciful the ball of death, — 
For it came suddenly and shatter'd him. 
And left no moment's agonizing thought 
On those he loved so well. 

He, ocean deep, 
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter 
Who art the widow's friend ! Man does not know 
What a cold sickness made her blood run back 
When first she heard the tidings of the fight : 
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope 
She listened to the names of those who died : 
Man does not know, — or, knowing, will not heed, — 
With what an agony of tenderness 
She gazed upon her children, and beheld 
His image who was gone. O God ! be Thou, 
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter ! 



S U T H E Y. 47 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And lie before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun, 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so larg'e, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And with a natural sigh, 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" W^ho fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden. 
For there's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out ! 

For many thousand men," said he, 

" Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
While little Wilhelmine looks up, 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 



48 S U T H E Y. 

" Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they kill'd each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they kill'd each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But every body said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory, 

"My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling- to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was w n ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
And our good prince Eugene." 

" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 
Said little Wilhelmine. 



S U T H E Y. 49 



" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And e\^ery body prais'd the Duke 
Who this great fight did win." 

" But what good came of it at last V 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 

" But 'twas a famous victory." 



TO A BEE. 

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

As abroad I took my early way. 

Before the cow from her resting-place 

Had risen up and left her trace 

On the meadow, with dew so gray. 

Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. 

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

After the fall of the Cistus flower ; 

When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst, 

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; 

In the silence of the evening hour, 

Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. 

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

Late and early at employ ; 

Still on thy golden stores intent. 

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent 

What thy winter will never enjoy ; 

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

5 



50 S U T H E Y. 

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

What is the end of thy toil. 

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone, 

And all thy work for the year is done, 

Thy master comes for the spoil : 

Wo then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee ! 



SONNET. 

O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour 
On the poor mariner ! in comfort here 
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear 
The blast that rages with resistless power. 

What were it now to toss upon the waves, 
The madden'd waves, and know no succour near : 
The howling of the storm alone to hear. 

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves : 
To gaze amid the horrors of the night. 
And only see the billow's gleaming light ; 

And in the dread of death to think of her, 
Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale, 
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale"? 
O God ! have mercy on the mariner ! 



MOORE. 51 

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1780. 
At the age of fourteen, lie entered the University of his native 
city, where he took his degree. In 1799, he became a member of 
the Middle Temple, and was called to the bar. Before he had 
completed his twentieth year, he published his Translations of the 
Odes of Anacreon ; and, at once, " became famous." The work 
was dedicated to the Prince of Wales, — and led to an introduction 
to his royal highness, and a subsequent intimacy of which a variety 
of anecdotes are related ; but that it terminated disadvantageously 
for both, we have unquestionable proof in the pages of some of the 
Poet's later writings. In 1803, Mr. Moore obtained an official 
situation at Bermuda ; he filled it but for a short period, and re- 
turned to England. In 1806, he published the "Odes and Epis- 
tles;" in 1808, Poems, under the assumed name of Thomas Little ; 
in 1817, Lallah Rookh ; and in 1823, the Loves of the Angels. 
Besides these Poems, Mr. Moore has printed a variety of light 
political squibs, — the value of which naturally ceased with the 
topics that called them forth. 

Mr. Moore resides in the vicinity of Bowood, — the seat of his 
friend Lord Lansdowne, near Calne. He has preferred retirement 
to celebrity — except that which the Muses have so lavishly be- 
stowed upon him ; and he resists all attempts to lure him into the 
arena of public life. It will be readily believed that he is the idol 
of the circle in which he moves. A finer gentleman, in the better 
sense of the term, is nowhere to be found : his learning is not 
only extensive, but sound ; and he is pre-eminent for those quali- 
ties which attract and charm in society. His voice though not of 
large compass, is wonderfully sweet and effective, and he is a good 
musician ; — to hear him sing one of his own melodies, is, indeed, 
a rich treat. In person he is " Little," and the expression of his 
countenance is rather joyous than dignified ; there is, however, a 
peculiar kindliness in his look and manner which in no way de- 
tracts from the enthusiasm his presence cannot fail to excite. 

It is scarcely necessary to comment on the poetry of Thomas 
Moore. It has been more extensively read than that of any exist- 
ing author ; those who might not have sought it otherwise, have be- 
come familiar with it through the medium of the delicious music to 



52 MOORE. 

which it has been wedded ; and it would be difficult to find a single 
individual in Great Britain unable to repeat some of his verses. 
No writer, living or dead, has enjoyed a popularity so universal : 
and if an author's position is to depend on the delight he produces, 
we must class the author of " Lallah Rookh," and the " Irish Melo- 
dies," as "chiefest of the Bards" of modern times. His poetry, 
however, is deficient in those higher and more enduring materials 
which form the groundwork of imperishable fame. Its leading 
attribute is grace. The Poet rarely attempts, and more rarely suc- 
ceeds, in fathoming the depths of the human heart, and laying 
open the rich vein that has been hidden by the dull quarry : he is 
always brilliant, but seldom powerful ; he is an epicurean in poetry, 
and turns away from all objects which do not yield enjoyment. His 
fancy is perpetually at play ; — things which please the senses are 
more contemplated than those which excite or control the passions; 
and while he 

" Lives in a bright little world of his own" — 
we must not mistake the dazzling and brilliant light which sur- 
rounds him, for the animating and invigorating sun. 

His poetry is exquisitely finished : we never encounter a line or 
even a word that grates upon the ear ; it is " harmony, delicious 
harmony," unbroken by a single jarring note. 

We are by no means singular in thinking that the " Irish Melo- 
dies" must be considered as the most valuable and enduring of all 
his works ; they 

" Circle his name with a charm against death ;" 
and as a writer of song he stands witliout a rival. Mr. Moore 
found the national music of his country, with very few exceptions, 
debased by a union with words that were either unseemly or unin- 
telligible. It was, therefore, comparatively lost to the world ; and 
time was rapidly diminishing that which memory alone preserved. 
The attempt to combine it with appropriate language, was com- 
menced in 1807. Its success is almost without parallel in the 
history of literature. The music of Ireland is now known and 
appreciated all over the world ; — and the songs of the Irish Poet 
will endure as long as the country, — the loves and glories of which 
they commemorate. 



MOORE. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

They say that Love had once a book 
(The urchin likes to copy you), 

Where all who came the pencil took, 
And wrote, like us, a line or two. 

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, 
Who kept this volume bright and fair, 

And saw that no unhallow'd line, 

Or thought profane, should enter there. 

And sweetly did the pages fill 
With fond device and loving lore. 

And every leaf she turn'd was still 
More bright than that she turn'd before ! 

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, 
How light the magic pencil ran ! 

Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft. 
And trembling close what Hope began. 

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief, 
And Jealousy would, now and then. 

Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf, 

Which Love had still to smooth again ! 



54 31 R E. 

But, oh, there was a blooming boy, 
Who often turn'd the pages o'er, 

And wrote therein such words of joy. 
As all who read still sigh'd for more ! 

And Pleasure was this spirit's name, 
And though so soft his voice and look, 

Yet Innocence, whene'er he came. 
Would tremble for her spotless book ! 

For still she saw his playful fingers 
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys : 

And well she knew the stain that lingers 
After sweets from wanton boys I 

And so it chanced, one luckless night 

He let his honey goblet fall 
O'er the dear book so pure, so white. 

And sullied lines, and marge and all ! 

In vain he sought, with eager lip. 
The honey from the leaf to drink, 

For still the more the boy would sip, 
The deeper still the blot would sink ! 

Oh, it would make you weep, to see 
The traces of this honey flood 

Steal o'er a page, where Modesty 
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud ! 

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow. 
And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced. 

And Love himself could scarcely know 
What Love himself had lately traced ! 



MOORE. 55 

At length the urchin Pleasure fled, 
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) 

And Love, while many a tear he shed, 
In blushes flung the book away ! 

The index now alone remains, 

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, 
And though it bears some honey stains, 

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure ! 

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, 

And oft, by the memorial aided. 
Brings back the pages, now no more. 

And thinks of lines that long have faded ! 

I know not if this tale be true, 

But thus the simple facts are stated ; 
AndJ refer their truth to you, 

Since Love and you are near related ! 



I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRLME. 

I SAW thy form in youthful prime. 

Nor thought that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of time 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thy features wore that light 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er looked more truly bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 

As streams that run o'er golden mines, 
Yet humbly, calmly glide. 



58 MOORE. 

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 
Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 

So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise, 
Thy radiant genius shone, 

And that which charm'd all other eyes, 
Seera'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! 

If souls could always dwell above 

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
Or, could we keep the souls we love. 

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet, 

Though fairest forms we see. 
To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary ! 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on ; 

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, — 
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone ! 

Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known: 

Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone ! 

Ne'er tell me of glories; serenely adorning 

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night : — 

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, 
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. 



\ 



MOORE. 57 

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning", 
When passion first waked a new life through his frame. 

And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in burning — 
Gave out all its- sweets to Love's exquisite flame ! 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. 



\ 



This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 

That chase one another, like waves of the deep, — 
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows. 

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. 
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried ; 
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. 

The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, 
But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy 

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, \» 

Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy, 

And the short brilliant folly that flashes and dies ! 

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, 

Through fidds full of sunshine, with heart full of play, 
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, 

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted 

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, 
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, 

And left their light urns all as empty as mine ! 
But pledge me the goblet — while Idleness weaves 

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see 
One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves 

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me ! 



S 



58 MOORE. 



ST. Jerome's love. 



Who is the maid my spirit seeks, 

Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? 
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ] 

Is hers an eye of this world's light ] 
No, — wan and sunk with midnight prayer 

Are the pale looks of her I love ; 
Or if, at times, a light be there. 

Its beam is kindled from above. 

I chose not her, my soul's elect. 

From those who seek their Maker's shrine 
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd. 

As if themselves were things divine ! 
]X"o — heaven but faintly warms the breast 

That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; 
And she who comes in glittering vest 

To mourn her frailty, still is frail. 

Not so the faded form I prize 

And love, because its bloom is gone ; 
The glory in those sainted eyes 

Is all the grace her brow puts on. 
And ne'er was beauty's dawn so bright, 

So touching as that form's decay. 
Which, like the altar's trembling light. 

In holy lustre wastes away ! 



M R E. 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft, in the stilly night 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together, 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintry weather ; 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garland's dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



59 



60 MOORE. 



WHEN 'MIDST THE GAY I MEET. 

When 'midst the g-ay I meet 

That blessed smile of thine, 
Though still on me it turns most sweet, 

I scarce can call it mine : 
But when to me alone 

Your secret tears you show, 
Oh ! then I feel those tears my own, 

And claim them as they flow, 
Then still with bright looks bless 

The gay, the cold, the free ; 
Give smiles to those who love you less. 

But keep your tears for me. 

The snow on Jura's steep 

Can smile with many a beam, 
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep. 

How bright soe'er it seem. 
But, when some deepfelt ray. 

Whose touch is fire, appears. 
Oh ! then the smile is warm'd away. 

And, melting, turns to tears. 
Then still with bright looks bless 

The gay, the cold, the free ; 
Give smiles to those w^ho love you less. 

But keep your tears for me. 



SHELLEY. 61 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart, 
of Castle Goring, was born at Field Place, Sussex, on the 4th of 
August, 1792. He was educated at Eton, and at University Col- 
lege, Oxford ; was' twice married, and has left two children, a 
daughter by the first wife, and a son — who is heir to the title — by 
the second. His widow, the daughter of William Godwin, is well 
known as the author of Frankenstein, and other novels. Mr. 
Shelley was cut off in the flower of his years and genius, on the 
8th of July, 1822; he was drowned in a storm on the Genoese 
coast, whither he was hastening, to his abode near the town of 
Lerici. 

It is within the scope neither of the limits nor the object of this 
work, to enter upon those controversial points, which so occupied 
the attention, and coloured the existence of this extraordinary man. 
Suffice it to say (for the man's nature can never be left out, where 
tlie Poet is concerned), that whether his speculations were v/ell or 
ill grounded, he is acknowledged on all hands to have been sincere 
in his pursuit of them ; and that his friends entertain the most en- 
thusiastic regard for his memory. 

Mr. Shelley was tall, and slight of figure, with a singular union 
of general delicacy of organization and muscular strength. His 
hair was brown, prematurely touched with gray ; his complexion 
fair and glowing ; his eyes gray and extremely vivid ; his face 
small and delicately featured, especially about the lower part ; and 
he had an expression of countenance, when he was talking in his 
usual earnest fashion, which has been described elsewhere, as giving 
you the idea of something " seraphical." 

Mr. Shelley's poetry resembles that creation, for the moral har- 
mony of which he was so anxious. It is wonderfully flowing and 
energetic, round and harmonious as the orb, — no less conversant 
with seas and mountains, than with flowers and the minutest beauty, 
— and it hungers and thirsts after a certain beauty of perfection, 
as the orb rolls in loving attraction round the sun. He is remarka- 
ble for mixing a scholarly grandiosity of style with the most unaf- 
fected feeling and the most impulsive expression, and for being 
alike supernatural and human in his enthusiasm, — that is to say, 
he is equally fond of soaring away into the most ethereal abstrac- 
tions, as if he were spirit ; and of sympathizing with every-day 
6 



O'-i SHELLEY. 

flesh and blood, as though he had done notliing but suffer and 
enjoy with the most earthbound of his fellow-creatures. Whether 
interrogating Nature in the icy solitudes of Chamouny, or thrilling 
with the lark in the sunshine, or shedding indignant tears with 
sorrow and poverty, or pulling flowers like a child in a field, or 
pitching himself back into the depths of time and space, and dis- 
coursing with the first forms and gigantic shadows of creation ; 
he is alike in earnest, and at home. His faults arise from the very 
excess of his sympathies with all things. He is sometimes obscure 
in the remoteness of his abstractions, and sometimes so impatient 
with the forms of error, as to seem contradictory to his own tole- 
rant doctrine. He not only 

" Relishes all things sharply, 
Passion'd as we—" 

He is far more passioned, and relishes them with a sharpness that 
makes him cry out like one constituted almost too delicately for 
existence. The cry is useful, because it begets attention to what 
might be otherwise too dully endured ; but it leaves his genius with 
a certain charge of impatience and excess upon it, that hazards, 
meanwhile, that very enjoyment of the beautiful which is longed 
for, and v/hich it is the more peculiar business of poetry to produce. 

The Editor is indebted for this Memoir of Shelley, and also for 
that of Keats, to the friend of both, Leigh Hunt. The dangerous 
tendency of Shelley's writings, — his mistakes, theoretical and prac- 
tical, acknowledged in some instances by himself, — will not find 
from others the excuse they have found from those who had per- 
sonal regard for the man, as well as admiration of the Poet. 
Shelley may have been, as is contended he was, sincere in his 
schemes for remodelling society ; but his doctrines are not, there- 
fore, the less pernicious. Unhappily he died before judgment had 
arrived to the aid of genius : it is impossible to doubt that a mind 
so naturally generous would have atoned for many of the errors 
he had assisted to propagate, if he had lived to be convinced of 
them. He publicly disavowed (in the " Examiner") the republica- 
tion of " Queen Mab ;" and regretted that he had written it. It 
was the work of a youth exasperated by scholastic injustice. 



SHELLEY. 



VENICE. 



Sea-girt City ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier. 
A less drear ruin then than now. 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne, among the waves 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew. 
O'er thine isles depopulate. 
And all is in its ancient state. 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own, 
Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 
The fisher on his watery way. 
Wandering at the close of day. 
Will spread his sail and sei5:e his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
Bursting o'er the starlit deep. 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 



64 SHELLEY. 



THE CLOUD. 



I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet birds every one, 
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits, 
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



SHELLEY. 65 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes^ 

And his burning- plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning-star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings^ 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With v/ings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden^ 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleecelike floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn * 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 

6* 



SHELLEY. 

From cape to cape, with a bridgelike shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, 

Is the million-colour'd bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



AN EXHORTATION. 

Chameleons feed on light and air ; 

Poets' food is love and fame: 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
With as little toil as they. 

Would they ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do. 



SHELLEY. 67 

Suiting it to every ray 
Twenty times a-day 1 

Poets are on this cold earth, 

As chameleons might be, 
Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea. 
Where light is, chameleons change ; 

Where love is not, poets do ; 

Fame is love disguised — if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
Tliat poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind : 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind, 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 
Spirits from beyond the moon, 
O, refuse the boon ! 



MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay. 

Tempts and then flies : 
What is this world's delight 1 
Lightning that mocks the night. 
Brief even as bright. 



SHELLEY. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship too rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night. 
Make glad the day ; 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou — and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep. 



TO NIGHT. 

Swiftly walk over the western wave. 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight I 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 

Star inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand, — 

Come, long sought ! 



SHELLEY. 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon. lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary day turned to his rest. 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee ! 

Thy brother, Death, came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ] 
Thy sweet child. Sleep, thy filmy-eyed. 
Murdered like a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side 1 
Wouldst thou me 1 — And I replied, 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon ! 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night ; 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 



70 



SHELLEY. 



Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee 1 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 



SHELLEY. 71 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves : 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 



72 SHELLEY. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Match'd with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ] 
What fields, or waves, or mountains 1 
What shapes of sky or plain ] 
What love of thine own kindl what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but never knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream. 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ] 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
1 know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 



SHELLEY. 73 

Better than all measures 

Of delig-htful sound, 
Better than all treasures, 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half thy gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness. 

From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as T am listeninsr now. 



/4 COLERIDGE. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born on the 20th of October, 
1772, at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire. His father was a 
learned clergyman ; and the Poet was the youngest of eleven 
children. In 1782, he was admitted into Christ's Hospital, London, 
where, according to his own account, he "enjoyed the inestimable 
advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very 
severe master." At a premature age, even before his fifteenth 
year, he had " bewildered himself in metaphysical and theological 
controversy;" yet he pursued his studies with so much zeal and 
perseverance, that in 1791 he became Grecian, or captain of the 
school, which entitled him to an exhibition at the University ; he 
was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. Three years afterwards, 
in an inauspicious hour he left the friendly cloisters," without 
assigning any cause, and without taking his degree; and again 
came to London. There, v/ithout the means of support, he wan- 
dered for some days about the streets, and enlisted in the 15th 
Dragoons. While doing duty at Reading, he wrote on the wall of 
the stable a Latin sentence, which chanced to meet the eye of one 
of the officers. The inquiry that followed led to his discharge. In 
1794, he published a small volume of Poems. Subsequently, the 
taint of French republicanism fell upon him ; and he lectured at 
Bristol in praise of the Daemon that had stolen, and was for a time 
welcomed in, the garb of liberty. In 1795, he married; and in 
1798 he visited Germany. In 1800, he returned to England; and 
although he had formerly professed Unitarianism, and had preached 
to a congregation at Taunton, he became a firm adherent to the 
doctrines of Christianity ; or, to use his own expression, found a 
" reconversion." Afterwards, he " wasted the prime and manhood of 
his intellect," as the Editor of a Newspaper. During the last nine- 
teen years of his life he resided with his faithful and devoted friends 
Mr. and Mrs. Gilman, at Highgate ; lecturing occasionall}^ writing 
poetry and prose, and delighting and instructing all who had the 
good fortune to be admitted to his society. He died on the 25th 
of July, 1834. 

The friends who knew him best, and under the shelter of whose 
roof-tree the later and the happier years of his chequered life were 
passed, have recorded their opinion of his character on the tablet 
that marks his grave in the Church at Highgate; and all who en- 
joyed the privilege of his acquaintance will bear testimony to its 



COLERIDGE. 75 

truth. It tells of his profound learning and discursive genius; his 
worth ; his social and Christian virtues ; and adds, that his dis- 
position was unalterably sweet and angelic : that he was an ever- 
enduring, ever-loving friend : the gentlest and kindest teacher — 
the most engaging home companion. 

Hazlitt, who knew him in his youth, describes him as rather 
above the middle size, inclining to corpulency ; as having a dreamy 
countenance, a forehead broad and high, with large projecting 
eyebrows, and " eyes rolling like a sea with darkened lustre." The 
description applies with almost equal accuracy to the Poet in age. 
The wonderful eloquence of his conversation is a prominent theme 
with all who have written or spoken of him ; it was full of matter : 
his bookish lore, and his wide and intimate acquaintance with 
men and tilings were enlivened by a grace and sprightliness abso- 
lutely startling; — his manner was singularly attractive, and the 
tones of his voice were perfect music. 

Few have obtained greater celebrity in the world of letters ; yet 
few have so wasted the energies of a naturally great mind ; few, 
in short, have done so little of the purposed and promised much. 
Some of the most perfect examples that our language can supply, 
are to be found among his Poems, full of the simplest and purest 
nature, yet pregnant with the deepest and most subtle philosopliy.* 
His judgment and taste were sound and refined to a degree ; and 
when he spoke of the "little he had published" as being of "little 
importance," it was because his conception of excellence exceeded 
even his power to convey it. Those who read his wildest pro- 
ductions — Christabel, and the Ancient Mariner — will readily ap- 
preciate the fertile imagination and prodigious strength of the 
writer ; and if they turn to the gentler efforts of his genius, they 
will find so many illustrations of a passage which prefaces an 
edition of his Juvenile Verses : " Poetry has been to me its ' exceed- 
ing great reward ;' it has soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied 
and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude ; and it has 
given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beauti- 
ful in all that meets and surrounds me." 

* A complete and beautifully printed edition of the Poems of S. T. Cole- 
ridge, in 3 vols, was published by Pickering, revised and arranged by the 
Poet, shortly before his death. 



COLERIDGE. 



THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 



Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 

Thy fair creation with a mastering- eye, 

And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 

Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 

See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 

And with that serviceable nymph I stoop. 

The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 

I see no longer ! I myself am there, 

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 

And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. 

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest. 

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 

The brightness of the world, O thou once free, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O, Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills ! 
And famous Arno fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine. 
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. 
And forests, where beside his leafy hold 



COLERIDGE. 

The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palladian palace, with its storied halls; 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed. 
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdraw^n 
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn, 
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine : 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 



LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Ofl in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

7* 



COLERIDGE. 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight : 
She stood and listened to my harp 
Amid the ling'ring light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song that fitted well 
The ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight, that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined : and, ah ! 
The low, the deep, the pleading tone, 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 



COLERIDGE. 79 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ! 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once, 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came, and looked him in the face. 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable Knight ! 

And how, unknowing what he did. 
He leap'd amid a murd'rous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept and clasped his knees. 
And how she tended him in vain, 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn, that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away 
When on the yellow forest leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

His dying words — But when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My falt'ring voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 



80 COLERIDGE. 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, 
The music, and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng ! 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight. 
She blushed with love and maiden shame : 
And, like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside ; 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with lier arms. 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears ; and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride ! 



COLERIDGE. 81 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip 

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 

But hear no murmuring: it flows silently 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the nightingale begins its song, 

" Most musical, most melancholy" bird ! 

A melancholy birdl O idle thought! 

In nature there is nothing melancholy. 

— But some night-wand'ring man, whose heart was pierced 

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

Of his own sorrows,) he and such as he 

First named these notes a melancholy strain : 

And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 

Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme 

When he had better far have stretched his limbs 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 

By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 

Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements, 

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 

And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 

Should share in nature's immortality. 



82 COLERIDGE. 

A venerable thing ! and so his song- 
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself 
Beloved, like nature ! — But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical. 
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
My friend, and my friend's sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates, 
With fast thick warble, his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! and I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not : and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many Nightingales : and far and near 
In wood and thicket over the wide grove 
They answer and provoke each other's songs — 
With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
And murmurs musical, and swift jug-jug, 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
Stirring the air with such an harmony, 
That, should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not day. 



COLERIDGE. 83 

A most gentle maid 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something- more than nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 
That gentle maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud. 
Hath heard a pause of silence : till the moon 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth with choral minstrelsy, 
As if one quick and sudden gale had swept 
An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perch giddily 
On bloss'my twig still swinging from the breeze. 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 

And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell! 

We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 

And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ! 

Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 

Who, capable of no articulate sound. 

Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 

How he would place his hand beside his ear, 

His little hand, the small forefinger up, 

And bid us listen ! and 1 deem it wise 

To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 

The evening star : and once when he awoke 

In most distressful mood (some inward pain 

Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) 

I hurried with him to our orchard plot, 



84 COLERIDGE. 

And he beholds the moon, and hushed at once 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears 
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well — 
It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends, farewell ! 



LINES, 
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST. 

I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and saw 

Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 

A surging scene, and only limited 

By the blue distance. Heavily my way 

Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore, 

Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 

Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard. 

The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound ; 

And the breeze, murmuring indi visibly, 

Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 

From many a note of many a waterfall. 

And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 

The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 

Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat 

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 

In low and languid mood : for I had found 

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 

Their finer influence from the life within : 

Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague 



COLERIDGE. 85 

Or unconcerning-, where the heart not finds 

History or prophecy of friend, or child, 

Or gentle maid, our first and early love, 

Or father, or the venerable name 

Of our adored country ! O thou Queen, 

Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 

O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 

Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds 

Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 

My native land ! 
Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud, 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills. 
Floated away, like a departing dream. 
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane, 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
That God is every where ! the God who framed 
Mankind to be one mighty family. 
Himself our Father and the world our home. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 

How warm this woodland wild recess ! 

Love surely hath been breathing here. 

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
Swells up, then sinks with fain caress, 

As if to have you yet more near. 

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 

On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills. 

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

8 



86 COLERIDGE. 

Float here and there, like things astray, 
And high o'er head the skylark shrills. 

No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 
That asking look] that yearning sigh] 

That sense of promise every where] 
Beloved ! flew your spirit by ] 

As when a mother doth explore 

The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 

As whom I long had loved before — 
So deeply had I been beguiled. 

You stood before me like a thought, 
A dream remember'd in a dream. 
But when those meek eyes first did seem 

To tell me. Love within you wrought — 
O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 

Has not, since then. Love's prompture deep. 
Has not Love's whisper evermore 
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ] 

Sole voice, when other voices sleep, 
Dear under-song in Clamour's hour. 



iW I L M A N. 87 

Henry Hart Milman was born in London, in 1791, and is the 
youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, an eminent physician. He 
received his early education at a school in Greenwich, where Dr. 
Charles Burney was his tutor. He was afterwards placed at Eton; 
and in 1810, entered at Brazen-nose College, Oxford. He soon be- 
came a distinguished scholar ; obtained prizes for English and Latin 
verse, and for English and Latin essays ; and gained first honours 
in the examinations. In 1815, he became a fellow of his College; 
and in 1817, took holy orders, and was presented to the vicarage of 
St. Mary, Reading. In 1821, he was elected Professor of Poetry 
in the University. Mr. Milman's first appearance before the public 
was as the author of "Fazio," a Tragedy. It met with considerable 
success; and, after it had passed the ordeal of periodical criticism, 
was produced on the 5th of February, 1818, at Drury Lane Thea- 
tre. It was written, he states, "with some view to the stage;"" it 
was successful in representation, and is still occasionally performed. 
The nature of his professional duties probably prevented his again 
writing for the stage ; but in 1820, he produced another dramatic 
work, the "Fall of Jerusalem." "Belshazzar," the "Martyr of 
Antioch," and "Anne Boleyn," are also dramatic; and these, with 
" Samor, Lord of the Bright City," and a few minor poems, com- 
prise the whole of his published poetical productions. He has, of 
late years, appeared but seldom before the world as an author. In 
1830, he published a " History of the Jews," a work which gave 
rise to much controversy, and subjected the writer to various 
attacks, on the ground that he desired to merge the divine in the 
historian, and to exhibit himself as a simple narrator of facts, — 
without any regard to the source whence he derived his materials, 
as an inspired and infallible record. He was accused of treating 
the Bible as a philosophical inquirer would treat any profane work 
of antiquity, — as having ascribed to natural causes, events which 
the Scriptures unequivocally declare to be miraculous, — and as 
having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert tiie bulwarks 
of the faith he was bound, by every consideration of honour and 
consistency, to defend. Such criticisms, however, he ably and 
effectually combated. 

Mr. Milman is still the Vicar of St. Mary, Reading, and in that 
town he continues to reside. He is described as an eloquent 



OS M I L M A N. 

preacher, and a zealous clergyman. In person he is tall; his 
countenance is fine, and expressive ; his manners are distant and 
reserved; and, however different he may be in the society of his 
friends, he is described by those who have had but little intercourse 
with him as perpetually reminding them that he is a dignitary of 
the church to which he belongs ; and that he is indisposed to touch 
any thing " common or unclean." 

Mr. Milman is a learned Poet. His study has been the cloister ; 
and neither in the city nor the green fields has he sought the Muse. 
Books; and not men, have been his companions. His poems are 
fine examples of sound intellect and cultivated taste ; but we look 
in vain through tliem for evidence of inventive power, and origi- 
nality of thought. He is certainly not an enthusiast, — and without 
enthusiasm there never was a true Poet. He brings Truth before 
us dressed in " fairy fiction ;" but he permits her to seek her way 
to the heart without any of those aids which a warm imagination 
and a lively sensibility would have lent her. She leans upon 
judgment rather than upon fancy, and appears loath to receive 
any votaries who would worship " without knowing why, or caring 
wherefore." In a preface to one of his later poems, Mr. Milman 
expresses a hope that his works " will tend to the advancement of 
those interests, in subservience to which alone our time and talents 
can be worthily employed, — those of piety and religion." This is 
honourable to one, v/hose grand object is to forward, by every 
means, the cause of which he is the chosen advocate ; and, if he 
had been of a warmer temperament, he might have brought poetry 
effectually to his aid, — it has often been so brought, — in the task 
he has undertaken. But there is a cold pomp about his writings, 
a frigid dignity of style, and a want of sympathy with human 
passions and desires, — which, unhappily, defeat his purpose. The 
temple to which he would conduct his followers, is grand, lofly, and 
paved with marble ; but it chills us the moment we have passed the 
inner gate. Among religious readers, therefore, Mr. Milman has 
never been popular ; and from the same causes, added to others, his 
fame in the world at large is not extensive. His mind is of a high 
order, his knowledge large and ready ; but he has little skill in 
mastering the heart, or in controlling the feelings, or in guiding 
the opinions of mankind. 



MILMAN. 



HYMN. 



When God came down from Heaven— the living" God — 
What signs and wonders mark'd His stately way : 

Brake out the winds in music where He trod 1 
Shone o'er the heavens a brighter, softer day } 

The dumb began to speak, the blind to see. 

And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness fled ; 

The mourner's sunken eye g'rew bright with glee, 
And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead I 

When God went back to Heaven — the living- God — 
Rode He the Heavens upon a fiery car ] 

Waved seraph-wings along His glorious road 1 
Stood still to wonder each bright wandering star ? 

Upon the cross He hung, and bowed the head. 

And pray'd for them that smote, and them that curst ; 

And, drop by drop. His slow life-blood was shed, 
And His last hour of sufTerinff was His worst. 



THE MERRY HEART. 

I WOULD not from the wise require 
The lumber of their learned lore ; 

Nor would I from the rich desire 
A single counter of their store. 

8* 



90 M I L M A N. 

For I have ease, and I have health, 
And I have spirits — light as air ; 

And more than wisdom, more than wealth,— 
A merry heart, that laughs at care. 

Like other mortals of my kind, 

I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour ; 
And sometimes have been half inclined 

To rate her for her ill behaviour. 
But life was short, — I thought it folly 

To lose its moments in despair ; 
So slipp'd aside from melancholy. 

With merry heart, that laugh'd at care. 

And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes 

Surprised me in a luckless season ; 
Turn'd all my mirth to lonely sighs. 

And quite subdued my better reason. 
Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve. 

And love, you know, 's a reason fair ; 
And much improved, as I believe. 

The merry heart, that laugh'd at care. 

So now from idle wishes clear, 

I make the good I may not find : 
Adown the stream I gently steer. 

And shift my sail with every wind. 
And half by nature, half by reason. 

Can still with pliant heart prepare. 
The mind, attuned to every season. 

The merry heart, that laughs at care. 

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream. 
Ye social feelings of the mind ; 



M I L M A N. 91 

Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam. 

And let the rest good-humour find. 
Yes, — let me hail and welcome give 

To every joy my lot may share ; 
And pleased and pleasing let me live 

With merry heart, that laughs at care. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 



Love Thee !— oh, Thou, the world's eternal Sire ! 
Whose palace is the vast infinity ; 
Time, space, height, depth, oh, God ! are full of Thee, 
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. 
Love Thee ! — but Thou art girt with vengeful fire. 
And mountains quake, and banded nations flee ; 
And terror shakes the wide unfathom'd sea, 
When the heavens rock with Thy tempestuous ire. 
Oh, Thou ! — too vast for thought to comprehend. 
That wast ere time, — shalt be when time is o'er ; 
Ages and worlds begin — grow old — and end, — 
Systems and suns Thy changeless throne before. 
Commence and close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder and adore ! 

II. 
Love Thee ! — oh, clad in human lowliness, — 
In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows, — 
Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our woes ; 
A fellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! 
Love Thee ! — whose every word but breathes to bless ! 
Through Thee, from long-seal'd lips, glad language flows ; 



92 M I L M A N. 

The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose : 
And babes, unchid. Thy garment's hem caress. 
I see Thee — doom'd by bitterest pangs to die, 
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps move, 
With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony ; 
While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above. 
Though all — even there — be radiant Deity ! 
Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is love ! 



ELLIOTT. 93 

EbEiXEzer Elliott was born on the 17th of March, 1781, at 
Masbro, a village near the town of Sheffield ; where he has since 
resided, and where he follows the calling of an Ironmonger. His 
birth, he informs rne, was registered only in tiie family Bible ; his 
father being " a dissenter, and a thorough hater of the Clmrch as 
by Law established." The boyhood of the Poet was neglected, in 
consequence of his supposed inability to learn anything useful; 
and he was left, for the most part, to his own guidance during the 
years which generally form the character of the future man. His 
nature was dull and slow, but thoughtful and affectionate. Hap- 
pily, his " idle time" was not "idly spent ;" his wanderings in the 
woods and fields laid the foundation of his after fame ; and Thom- 
son's Seasons made him a versifier : 

*' His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 
Tlie meadow and the moor." 

When at the age which determines destiny, or, — as he quaintly 
expresses it, — " while it was doubtful whether he would become a 
man or a malt-worm," a country curate bequeathed to his home a 
library of valuable Theological Works. To this new source of 
profit and enjoyment, tinctured though it was with gloom, and to 
the conversation and amateur-preaching of his father, " an old 
Cameronian and born rebel," whose religion was of the severest 
kind, and whose " dreadful declamations it wa< his misfortune to 
hear," may be traced the character, literary and political, of the 
future Corn-Law Rhymer. Blessed or cursed with a hatred of 
wasted labour, he was never known to read a bad book through ; 
but he has read again and again, and deeply studied all the master- 
pieces of the mind, original and translated ; and the master-pieces 
only : a circumstance to which he attributes his success. " There 
is not," he says, "a good thought in his works that has not been 
suggested by some object actually before his eyes, or by some real 
occurrence, or by the thoughts of other men," — " but," he adds, " I 
can make other men's thoughts breed." His genius, according to 
his own view of it, is a compound of earnest perseverance, restless 
observation, and instinctive or habitual hatred of oppression. He 
protests against being considered a coarse and careless writer ; and 
asserts that he has never printed a careless line. 

So far my notice is indebted to the Corn- Law Rhymer himself. 
For the rest, I learn that he is indefatigable in application to his 



94 ELLIOTT. 

unpoetic business ; a most kind husband and father, a pleasant 
associate, and a faithful friend ; energetic to an extreme in conver- 
sation; roughly but powerfully eloquent; and that his "counte- 
nance bespeaks deep thought, and an enthusiastic temperament ; 
his overhanging brow is stern to a degree, while the lower part of 
his face indicates mildness and benevolence." 

I may state with natural and pardonable pride, that while Editor 
of the New Monthly Magazine, it was my fortunate privilege to 
direct to this extraordinary and highly gifted man the public atten- 
tion he had long, but vainly, courted. In April, 1831, a letter 
reviewing his poetry was addressed to Dr. Southey, by one of the 
most accomplished writers of the age, and published in that Perio- 
dical. From the day of its appearance, the world wondered what 
strange fatality had hitherto obscured his genius ; it was at once 
acknowledged, and his " earnest perseverance" recompensed. His 
Poems have been recently collected into three volumes.* 

It is impossible to avoid some comment on the harsh, ungene- 
rous, and we must add, un-English, political principles, which so 
continually influence, so thoroughly satura'e, and so essentially 
impair the Poetry of the Rhymer. In his " Corn-Law Rhymes," 
and the Poems avowedly political, w^e look for and pardon his 
strong and ungentle opinions ; but he can rarely ramble through a 
green lane, climb the mountain's brow, or revel amid the luxuries 
of nature, without giving them expression. He has wjoed Liberty 
with an unchaste passion. His fancy is haunted by images of 
tyrant-kings, tax-fed aristocrats, and bigoted oppressors. 

Still, with the highest and most enduring ot" British Poets, we 
must class Ebenezer Elliott. Among his Poems there are many 
glorious and true transcripts of nature ; full of pathos and beauty, 
vigorous and original in thought; and clear, eloquent, and impas- 
sioned in language. His feelings, though at times kindly and 
gentle, are more often dark, menacing and stern ; but they are 
never grovelling or low. He has keen and burning sympathies; 
but unhappily he forgets that the high-born and wealthy claim 
them and deserve them, as well as the poor, and those who are 
more directly " bread-taxed ;" — that suffering is the common lot 
of humanity. 

* Benjamin Steill, Paternoster Row. 1835. 



ELLIOTT. 

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. 

Strong climber of the mountain's side, 

Though thou the vale disdain, 
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide 

The wonders of the lane. 
High o'er the rushy springs of Don 

The stormy gloom is roll'd ; 
The moorland hath not yet put on 

His purple, green, and gold. 
But here the titling spreads his wing, 

Where dewy daisies gleam; 
And here the sun-flower of the spring 

Burns bright in morning's beam. 
To mountain winds the famish'd fox 

Complains that Sol is slow, 
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks 

His royal robe to throw. 
But here the lizard seeks the sun, 

Here coils in light the snake ; 
And here the fire-tuft hath begun 

Its beauteous nest to make. 
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee 

Where verdure fires the plain. 
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see 

The glories of the lane ! 
For, oh, I love these banks of rock. 

This roof of sky and tree. 



96 



ELLIOTT. 

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming- clock, 

And wakes the earliest bee ! 
As spirits from eternal day- 
Look down on earth secure ; 
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey 

A world in miniature ; 
A world not scorn'd by Him who made 

Even weakness by his might ; 
But solemn in his depth of shade, 

And splendid in his light. 
Light ! not alone on clouds afar 

O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, 
Or widely teaching sun and star 

Thy glorious thoughts are read ; 
Oh, no ! thou art a wondrous book, 

To sky, and sea, and land — 
A page on which the angels look. 

Which insects understand ! 
And here, oh. Light ! minutely fair, 

Divinely plain and clear. 
Like splinters of a crystal hair. 

Thy bright small hand is here. 
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, 

Is Huron, girt with wood ; 
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide — 

And that, Niagara's flood. 
What tidings from the Andes brings 

Yon line of liquid light. 
That down from heav'n in madness flings 

The blind foam of its might ? 
Do I not hear his thunder roll — 

The roar that ne'er is still ? 
'Tis mute as death ! — but in my soul 

It roars, and ever will. 



ELLIOTT. 97 

What forests tall of tiniest moss 

Clothe every little stone ! 
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss 

O'er pigmy valleys lone ! 
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, 

Ambitious of the sky. 
They feather o'er the steepest edge 

Of mountains mushroom high. 
Oh, God of marvels ! who can tell 

What myriad living things 
On these gray stones unseen may dwell ! 

Wliat nations, with their kings ! 
I feel no shock, I hear no groan 

While fate perchance o'erwhelms 
Empires on this subverted stone — 

A hundred ruin'd realms ! 
Lo ! in that dot, some mite, like me, 

Impell'd by wo or whim. 
May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see — 

A tiny world to him ! 
Lo ! while he pauses, and admires 

The works of nature's might, 
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires. 

And all to him is night ! 
Oh, God of terrors ! what are we 1 — 

Poor insects, spark'd with thought ! 
Thy whisper. Lord, a word from thee, 

Could smite us into nought ! 
But shouldst thou wreck our father-land. 

And mix it with the deep. 
Safe in the hollow of thy hand 

Thy little ones would sleep. 



9 



98 ELLIOTT. 



THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 

Before thy leaves thou com'st once more, 

White blossom of the sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, 
Will then lie low. 

A month at least before thy time 

Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; 
For well thou know'st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime. 
No more to be. 

Why here in winter 1 No storm lours 

O'er nature's silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High o'er the doomed untimely flowers 
In beauty bowed. 

Sweet violets in the budding- grove 
Peep where the glad waves run ; 
The wren below, the thrush above. 
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love 
Sing to the sun. 

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold. 
Smiles o'er the well in summer cold, 
And daisied sod. 



ELLIOTT. 99 

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 

And flowers in winter blow. 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb. 
And thinks me slow. 

For as the rainbow of the dawn 

Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the saddened lawn 
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 

Thy leaves will come ! but songful spring 

Will see no leaf of mine ; 
Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing. 
When my young leaves are withering 
Where no suns shine. 

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath. 
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime ! • 
But, thine before my time, oh, death ! 
I go where no flow'r blossoraeth, 
Before my time. 

Even as the blushes of the morn 

Vanish, and long ere noon 
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn. 
So fair I bloomed ; and was I born 
To die as soon ? 

To love my mother, and to die — 

To perish in my bloom ! 
Is this my sad, brief history ! — 
A tear dropped from a mother's eye 
Into the tomb. 



100 ELLIOTT. 

He lived and loved — will sorrow say — 

By early sorrow tried ; 
He smiled, he sighed, he past away : 
His life was but an April day, — 
He loved, and died ! — 

My mother smiles, then turns away. 

But turns away to weep : 
They whisper round me — what they say 
I need not hear, for in the clay 
I soon must sleep. 

O, love is sorrow ! sad it is 

To be both tried and true ; 
I ever trembled in my bliss : 
Now there are farevv^ells in a kiss, — 
They sigh adieu. 

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade. 

Where Don reflects the skies ; 
And many a youth in Shire-cliflfs' shade 
Will ramble where my boyhood played, 
Though Alfred dies. 

Then panting woods the breeze will feel, 

And bowers, as heretofore, 
Beneath their load of roses reel : 
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal 
No more, no more. 

Well, lay me by my brother's side. 
Where late we stood and wept ; 
For I was stricken when he died, — 
I felt the arrow as he sighed 
His last, and slept. 



ELLIOTT. 101 



A POET S EPITAPH. 



Stop, Mortal I Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor, 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 

The meadow, and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail. 

The tyrant, and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother every where ! 

And is thy brother blamed 1 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care. 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honouring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labour's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



9* 



X(© ELLIOTT. 



TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 

Wild bramble of the brake I 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 

I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 

That cannot feel how fair. 
Amid all beauty beautiful, 

Thy tender blossoms are ! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 

How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 
While silent showers are falling slow. 

And 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough. 

Lone whispering through the bush ! 
The primrose to the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss'd gray stone 

Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring. 

In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorn'd bramble of the brake ! once more 

Thou bid'st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 

In freedom and in joy. 



LAMB. 103 

Charles Lamb was born in the Temple, London, on the ] 0th of 
February, 1775. He received his education at Christ's Hospital, 
and was, for the jrreater portion of his life, a clerk in the office of 
the Accountant-General at the India House. His earliest and 
his latest associate was his schoolmate, Coleridge : — the last, or 
nearly the last, lines he ever penned contained a brief but deeply 
earnest and pathetic tribute to the memory of his " fifty years old 
friend without a dissension ;" and the grass had not time to grow 
over the grave of the one before it was opened to receive all that 
was mortal of the other. Tlie life of Charles Lamb contains no 
startling incident ; — it was calm, comparatively untroubled, even 
and unobtrusive ; a story is told, indeed, of some mystery that 
hung as a dark cloud over his merry heart, bringing and keeping 
care and despondency under his roof — but it is one with which the 
world had no concern ; his pecuniary circumstances were easy ; 
and literature was to him the staff but not the crutch. To the fact 
that he was never compelled to write, we are indebted for the high 
degree of finish which distinguishes all he produced : but to this 
cause also must be attributed that he wrote so little. Partly from 
choice, and partly from the necessity of attending daily to his 
official duties, he was a constant resident in London ; and, conse- 
quently, neither in his poetry nor his prose do we find many proofs 
of that inspiration which is drawn from familiar intercourse witii 
Nature. He loved the country far less than he loved the town ; and 
found in the streets andalleysof the Metropolis tliemes as fertile as 
some of his contemporaries had sought and obtained among the 
hills and valleys of Westmoreland. He knew every spot the great 
men of former days had made " hallowed ground." Many a 
dingy building of brick was to him more sacred than " the temple 
not made with hands," as being the birth-place or intellectual 
laboratory of some mighty master of the past. His delicious 
" Essays," therefore, open to us sources of peculiar delight, and 
show that as much exquisite enjoyment may be derived from a 
contemplative stroll down Fleet Street, as from a pensive ramble 
*' mid flower-enamelled lands and blooming thickets." They are 
full of wisdom, pregnant with genuine Vv'it, abound in true pathos, 
and have a rich vein of humour running through them all. The 
kindliness of his heart, and the playfulness of his fancy are spread 
over every page. As a critic, he was sound yet gentle. If his 



104 LAMB. 

maturer taste and extensive reading compelled him to try all 
modern writers by a standard terribly severe, he reproved with a 
mildly persuasive bearing : 

" Of light and wrong he taught 
Truths as refined as ever Athens heard." 

If his style reminds us forcibly of the " old inventive Poets," he 
never strikes us as an imitator of them. His mind was akin to 
theirs ; and he lived his days and nights in their company ; natu- 
rally and unconsciously, therefore, he thought as they thought, and 
adopted their manner. — His "Tragedy," as he calls it, "John 
Woodvil," will almost bear comparison with the happiest efforts of 
our dramatists, in the high and palmy days of the drama. Few 
of them have done more within the same space ; or produced finer 
effects by simple touches. 

The personal character of Lamb must have been amiable to a 
degree ; — the evidence of his writings, and the testimony of many 
friends, prove it to have been so. He died at his residence in 
Islington, on the 27th of December, 1834. His personal appear- 
ance was remarkable : his figure was diminutive and ungraceful ; 
but his head was of the finest and most intellectual cast ; " his face," 
writes one of his most esteemed friends, " was deeply marked and 
full of noble lines, — traces of sensibility, imagination, suffering, 
and much thought. His wit was in his eye, luminous, quick, and 
restless. The smile that played about his mouth was ever cordial 
and good-humoured." Leigh Hunt has happily characterized both 
his person and his mind ; — " as his frame so is his genius. It is 
as fit for thought as can be, and equally as unfit for action." 

The Poetical productions of Charles Lamb are very limited ; 
but they are sufficient both in quantity and quality to secure for 
him a prominent station among the Poets of Great Britain. He 
did not consider it beneath him to scribble " Album verses ;" but 
his judgment in publishing them has been arraigned. If among 
them we find a few puerilities, and numerous affectations, it will 
not require a very close search to perceive many graceful and beau- 
tiful flowers lurking under leaves which are certainly uninviting. 
He loved to trifle, both in verse and prose ; yet his trifling was 
that of a philosopher, — desiring to unbend, but retaining a con- 
sciousness of power. 



LAMB. 

THE gipsy's malison. 

" Suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving-. 
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting ; 

Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living- 
Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 

Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses. 

Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings 

Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses 
Tends thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed. 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flush'd her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride. 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 



106 LAMB. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool, 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
Nature had blest her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarning 1 



SONNETS. 

Wa s it some sweet device of faery 
That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, 
And fancied wanderings with a fair hair'd maid? 
Have these things been 1 or what rare witchery, 
Impregning with delights the charmed air, 
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile 
In those jfine eyes 1 methought they spake the while 
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair 
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by 
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade 
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid ? 
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh 1 



107 



While I forlorn do wander reckless where, 
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. 



Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd 

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high 

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, 

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind 

Aught envying. And, O Anna ! mild-eyed maid I 

Beloved ! I were well content to play 

With thy free tresses all a summer's day. 

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. 

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale 

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, 

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ; 

And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail 

In gentle sort, on those who practise not 

Or love or pity, though of woman born. 

When last I roved these winding-wood walks green 
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, 
Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene. 
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. 
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade : 
Her image only in these pleasant ways 
Meets me self-wandering, where, in happier days, 
I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. 
I passed the little cottage which she lov'd. 
The cottage which did once my all contain ; 
It spake of days which ne'er must come again, 
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. 
" Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !" said I, 
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. 



108 LAMB. 



ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 

A curious frame of Nature's work. 

A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 

A nameless piece of babyhood, 

Was in her cradle-coffin lying : 

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 

For darker closets of the tomb ! 

She did but ope an eye, and put 

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 

For the long dark : ne'er more to see 

Through glasses of mortality. 

Riddle of destiny, who can show 

What thy short visit meant, or know 

What thy errand here below 1 

Shall we say, that Nature blind 

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind. 

Just when she had exactly wrought 

A finish'd pattern without fault? 

Could she flag, or could she tire, 

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 

That should thy little limbs have quicken'd] 

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 

Life of health, and days mature : 

Woman's self in miniature ! 

Limbs so fair, they might supply 

(Themselves now but cold imagery) 

The sculptor to lay beauty by. 

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, 

That babe, or mother, one must die ; 



109 



So in mercy left the stock, 

And cut the branch ; to save the shock 

Of young" years widow'd ; and the pam, 

When single state comes back again 

To the lone man, who, 'reft of wife. 

Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 

The economy of Heaven is dark; 

And wisest clerks have missed the mark. 

Why human buds, like this, should fall, 

More brief than fly ephemeral, 

That has his day ; while shrivePd crones 

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 

And crabbed use the conscience sears 

In sinners of an hundred years. 

Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. 

Rites, which custom does impose. 

Silver bells and baby clothes ; 

Coral redder than those lips. 

Which pale death did late eclipse ; 

Music framed for infants' glee. 

Whistle never tuned for thee ; 

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them. 

Loving hearts were they which gave them. 

Let not one be missing ; nurse, 

See them laid upon the hearse 

Of infant slain by doom perverse. 

Why should kings and nobles have 

Pictured trophies to their grave ; 

And we, churls, to thee deny 

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 

A more harmless vanity 7 



10 



110 MONTGOMERY. 

James Montgomery was born in Irvine, in Ayrshire, in 1771. His 
parents belonged to the church of the United Brethren, commonly 
called Moravians, — a sect by no means numerous in England, 
and still more limited in Scotland. Having previously sojourned for 
a short time at a village in the Irish county of Antrim, they placed 
the future Poet at the school of their society, at Fulnick, near Leeds, 
and embarked for the West-Indies, as missionaries among the 
negro slaves. They were the victims of their zeal and humanity; 
the husband died in Barbadoes, and the wife in Tobago. 

After remaining two years at Fulnick, and, like other men of 
genius, disappointing the expectations of his friends, as a student 
" from very indolence," he was placed by them in a retail sliop at 
Mirfield, near Wakefield. This ungenial employment he considered 
himself — not being under indentures — at liberty to relinquish at 
the end of two years, with a view to try his fortune in the great 
world. After spending other two years at a village near Rotherham 
and a few months with a bookseller in London, he engaged as an 
assistant with Mr. Joseph Gales, of Sheffield, who published a 
newspaper; — to the management of which, in 1794, he succeeded. 
This, though conducted with comparative moderation, exposed him 
to much enmity — rather inherited by his predecessor than actually 
incurred by himself. The liberty of the press, in those days, was, 
like Faith, "the substance of things hoped for;" a sentence of 
condemnation, or even a word of reproach against men in " high 
places" was punished as libellous. Montgomery did not indeed 
share the fate of some of his stern sectarian forefathers ; but, in 
lieu of maiming and pillory, he had to endure fine and imprison- 
ment. Within eighteen months, and when he had scarcely arrived 
at manhood, his exertions in the cause of rational freedom had 
twice consigned him to a gaol. During the thirty years that fol- 
lowed, however, he was permitted to publish his opinions — without 
being the object of open persecution. Wearied out, at length, he 
relinquished his newspaper, in 1825. Recently one of the govern- 
ment grants to British Worthies has been conferred upon him ; and 
— it must be recorded to his honour — by Sir Robert Peel. The Poet 
continues to reside at Sheffield, — esteemed, admired, and beloved : 
a man of purer mind, or more unsuspected integrity, never existed. 
He is an honour to the profession of letters; and, by the upright 
and unimpeachable tenor of his life — even more than by his 



MONTGOMERY. Ill 

writings — the persuasive and convincing advocate of religion. In 
his personal appearance, Montgomery is rather below than above 
the middle stature: his countenance is peculiarly bland and tran- 
quil ; and, but for the occasional sparklings of a clear gray eye, it 
could scarcely be described as expressive. 

Very early in life Montgomery published a volume of poems. 
They were not, it would appear, favourably received by the public ; 
and, he writes, the disappointment of his premature poetical hopes 
brought with it a blight, which his mind has never recovered. 
" For many years," he adds, " I was as mute as a moulting bird ; 
and wJien the power of song returned, it was without the energy, 
self-confidence, and freedom, which happier minstrels among my 
contemporaries have manifested." The Wanderer of Switzerland 
was published in 1806; the West Indies, in 1810; the World be- 
fore the Flood, in 1813 ; Greenland, in 1819 ; tiie Pelican Island, in 
1827: he has since contented himself with the production of occa- 
sional verses. 

Those who can distinguish the fine gold from the " sounding 
brass" of poetry, must place the name of James Montgomery high 
in the list of British Poets ; and those who consider that the chief- 
est duty of such is to promote the cause of religion, virtue, and 
humanity, must acknowledge in him one of their most zealous 
and efficient advocates. He does not, indeed, often aim at bolder 
flights of imagination ; but if he seldom rises above, he never sinks 
beneath, the object of which he desires the attainment. If he rarely 
startles us, he still more rarely leaves us dissatisfied ; he does not 
attempt that to which his powers are unequal, — and therefore is, 
at all times, successful. To the general reader, it will seem as if 
the early bias of his mind and his first associations had tinged — 
we may not say tainted — the source from whence he drew his in- 
spirations, and that his poems are " sicklied o'er" with peculiar 
impressions and opinions which fail to excite the sympathy of the 
great mass of mankind. We should, however, recollect, that al- 
though he has chiefly addressed himself to those who think with 
him, his popularity is by no means confined to them ; but that those 
who read poetry for the delight it affords them, and without any 
reference to his leading design, acknowledge his merit, and con- 
tribute to his fame. 



MONTGOMERY. 



THE GRAVE. 



There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found, — 
They softly lie and sweetly sleep 

Low in the ground. 

The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
No more disturbs their deep repose. 
Than summer evening's latest sigh 

That shuts the rose, 

I long to lay this painful head 

And aching heart beneath the soil, — 

To slumber in that dreamless bed. 

From all my toil. 

For misery stole me at my birth. 
And cast me helpless on the wild : 
I perish ! O my mother earth 

Take home thy child 

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined. 
Shall gently moulder into tliee ; 
Nor leave one wretched trace behind 

Resemblinof me. 



MONTGOMERY. 113 

Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear ; 
My pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave : 
Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 

" I AM THE GRAVE. 

" Tlie Grave, that never spake before, 
Hath found at length a tongue to chide : 
O listen ! I will speak no more ; — 

Be silent, Pride ! 

" Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, 
The victim of consuming care 1 
Is thy distracted conscience torn 

By fell despair 1 

" Do foul misdeeds of former times 
Wring with remorse tliy guilty breast 1 
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 

Murder thy rest 1 

" Lash'd by the furies of the mind. 
From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to find 

A friend in me : 

" By all the terrors of the tomb, — 
Beyond the power of tongue to tell : 
By the dread secrets of my w^omb ; 

By death and hell 

" I charge thee live ! repent and pray. 
In dust thine infamy deplore : 
There yet is mercy, — go thy way. 

And sin no more. 
10* 



114 MONTGOMERY. 

" Art thou a wanderer ? — hast thou seen 
O'erwhelming- tempests drown thy bark ? 
A shipwreck'd sufferer, hast thou been 

Misfortune's mark 1 

" Art thou a mourner 1 — hast thou known 
The joy of innocent delights ; 
Endearing" days for ever flown, 

And tranquil nights 1 

"O LIVE ! — and deeply cherish still 
The sweet remembrance of the past : 
Rely on Heaven's unchanging w411 

For peace at last. 

" Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam ; 
Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, — 
A quiet home. 

" To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame, 
And was thy friend a deadly foe, — 
Who stole into thy breast, to aim 

A surer blow 1 

" Live ! — and repine not o'er his loss, — 
A loss unworthy to be told : 
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 

For friendship's gold. 

" Seek the true treasure, seldom found, 
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm ; 
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 

With heavenly balm. 



MONTGOMERY. 115 

" Did Woman's charms thy youth beguile, — 
And did the fair one faithless prove 1 
Hath she betray'd thee with a smile, 

And sold thy love 1 

" Live I 'Twas a false bewildering fire ; 
Too often Love's insidious dart 
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, — 
But kills the heart. 

" Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, 
To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ; 
To ask, — and pause in hope and fear 
Till she reply. 

" A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, — 
A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
In woman's love. 

" Whate'er thy lot — whoe'er thou be, 
Confess thy folly, — kiss the rod ; 
And in thy chastening sorrows see 

The hand of God. 

" A bruised reed He will not break, — 
Afflictions all his children feel : 
He wounds them for his mercy's sake, — 
He wounds to heal. 

"Humbled beneath his mighty hand. 
Prostrate his Providence adore : 
'Tis done ! Arise ! He bids thee stand. 
To fall no more. 



116 MONTGOMERY. 

-*' Now, traveller in the vale of tears, 
To realms of everlasting light, 
Through Time's dark wilderness of years 
Pursue thy flight. 

" There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
And while the mouldering ashes sleep 

Low in the ground, 

" The Soul, of origin divine, 
God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
A star of day. 

" The SUN is but a spark of fire, — 
A transient meteor in the sky : 
The SOUL, immortal as its sire, 

Shall never die I" 



FRIENDS. 

Friend after friend departs ; 

Who hath not lost a friend ] 
There is no union here of hearts. 

That finds not here an end : 
Were this frail world our only rest,- 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time. 
Beyond this vale of death, — 

There surely is some blessed clime, 
Where life is not a breath ; 



MONTGOMERY. 117 

Nor life's aifections transient fire, 
Whose sparks fly upward to expire. 

There is a world above, 

Where parting is unknown, — 
A whole eternity of love, 

Form'd for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds thee dying here 
Translated to that happier sphere. 

Thus star by star declines. 

Till all are pass'd away, 
As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, — 
They hide themselves in heaven's own light. 



HANNAH. 

At fond sixteen my roving heart 
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart ; 
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, 
I never felt so sweet a pain ] 

Where circling woods embower'd the glade, 
I met the dear romantic maid ; 
I stole her hand, — it shrunk ! — but no ; 
I would not let my captive go. 

With all the fervency of youth. 
While passion told the tale of truth ; 
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye, — 
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy. 



118 MONTGOMERY. 

Not with a warmer, purer ray, 
The sun, enamour'd, w^oos young- May ; 
Nor May, with softer maiden grace. 
Turns from the Sun her blushing- face. 

But, swifter than the frighted dove. 
Fled the gay morning of my love ; 
Ah ! that so bright a morn, so soon 
Should vanish in so dark a noon ! 

The angel of affliction rose. 
And in his grasp a thousand woes ; 
He pour'd his vial on my head. 
And all the heaven of rapture fled. 

Yet, in the glory of my pride, 

I stood, — and all his wrath defied : 

I stood, — though whirlwinds shook my brain, 

And lightnings cleft my soul in twain. 

I shunn'd my nymph ; — and knew not why 
I durst not meet her gentle eye ; 
I shunn'd her, — for I could not bear 
To marry her to my despair. 

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd, 
Oft the dear image of that maid 
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind, 
And promised happiness behind. 

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast 
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest : 
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild 
The sea of youth and pleasure smiled. 



MONTGOMERY. 119 

'Twas on the merry morn of May, 
To Hannah's cot I took my way : 
My ea^er hopes were on the wing-, 
Like swallows sporting in the spring. 

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er, 
I liv'd my wooing days once more ; 
And fancy sketch'd my married lot, — 
My wife, my children, and my cot. 

I saw the village steeple rise, — 
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes ; 
The rural bells rang sweet and clear, — 
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear. 

I reach'd the hamlet ; — all was gay : 

I love a rustic holiday ; 

I met a wedding, — stepp'd aside ; 

It pass'd, — my Hannah was the bride ! 

— There is a grief that cannot feel, — 
It leaves a wound that will not heal : 
— My heart grew cold, — it felt not then ; 
When shall it cease to feel again ] 



120 WHITE. 

Henry Kirke White was born on the 21st of August, 1785, at 
Nottingham, where his father was a butcher. He gave early- 
tokens of the genius for which he was afterwards distinguished ; 
and had written verses when scarcely more than a child. While 
at school and wooing the Muses, however, his spirit was subdued 
by his occupation ; on one whole day in every week, and during 
his leisure hours on the others, he was compelled to carry out the 
butcher's basket ; this drudgery he was forced to excliange for one 
scarcely less repulsive ; at the age of fourteen, the loom of a hosier 
was selected as a fitting labour for this " darling of Science and 
the Muse :" his mother, however, felt that his yearnings after fame 
were indications of a higher destiny, and succeeded in placing 
him in the office of an attorney. Here he earnestly laboured to 
acquire knowledge ; soon " learned to read Horace with tolerable 
facility, and made some progress in Greek ;" obtained an insight 
into several of the sciences ; and became so conspicious at the age 
of fifteen, as to be elected one of six professors in the Literary 
Society of his native town. Having already felt a consciousness 
of his natural powers, his mind was directed towards the Universi- 
ties, — he was ambitious of academic distinction, yet with a very 
remote hope of ever attaining it. Having printed some prose and 
poetry in several of the Magazines, he was induced, in 1803, to 
endeavour to forward his darling project by publishing a small 
volume. The volume was harshly handled by a critic in the 
Monthly Review, and the hopes and aspirations of the youth 
seemed for a time crushed for ever. Events which appear the 
most ruinous are often the most propitious. The ungentle usage 
the young Poet had received, attracted towards him a friend, who 
was not only kind and generous, but already in the zenith of his 
reputation ; the friend was Robert Southey, a man, who, from that 
day to this, seems to have considered it a leading duty of his life, 
and the highest recompense of his genius, to assist young strug- 
glers after fame through the slough of despond which so continually 
surrounds them. His Memoir of White is one of the most exquisite 
examples of biography the English language can supply ; and does 
as much honour to the living, as to the memory of the deceased, 
Poet. Wliite achieved his object ; was entered at St. John's Col- 
lege, Cambridge, and rapidly obtained the highest honours the Uni- 



WHITE. 121 

versity could confer upon him. All the wasting anxieties of years 
were now rewarded — the bud had blossomed — and the obscure and 
friendless youth found fame and "admiring friends." But the 
pertalty was yet to be exacted : the ardour with which he had 
studied — the eager longings after immortality — the unsubdued 
resolve to be " marked among men," had weakened his frame ; — ■ 
life was the price he paid for distinction ; and 

" Science self destroyed her favourite son." 

On the 19th of October, 1806, he died : " his death," says Dr. 
Southey, " is to be lamented as a loss to English literature ;" he 
adds, that " his virtues were as admirable as his genius." " Dis- 
tress and poverty," says another great authority, " could not impair 
his mind — which death itself destroyed rather than subdued." 

Nearly all the Poems of Henry Kirke White were written before 
he attained the age of nineteen. When he entered College, he was 
advised " to stifle his poetic fire for severer and more important 
studies — to lay a billet on the embers until he had taken his degree, 
and then he might fan it into a flame again." This advice he fol- 
lowed so scrupulously, that a few " fragments," are the only pro- 
duce of his maturer years. His " Remains," have been among the 
most popular productions of the age : edition after edition has been 
called for ; and a collection of the Works of British Poets would 
be imperfect if it did not contain the Poems of this " marvellous 
boy," — the martyr student, the endowments of whose mind was 
even surpassed by the generosity of his nature, the sweetness of 
his disposition, the soundness of his principles, and the fervency of 
his piety. His poetical talent was but one of many rare excel- 
lences ; a character more perfect, in every sense of the word, has 
rarely fallen under the notice of the biographer. Had he lived to 
enter the sacred profession, which latterly became the engrossing 
object of his thoughts, he would have been one of its brightest 
ornaments; and it is certain that he must have occupied a foremost 
station among the Poets of his country. As it is, he has left us 
abundant proofs of the wisdom of virtue ; his upright conduct, no 
less than his genius, drew friends -around him ; and it is to the 
former, even more than to the latter, that his memory is indebted 
for one of the most valuable tributes that ever came from the pen 
of a public writer. 

11 



WHITE. 

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 

Down the sultry arc of day 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And Eve along the western skies 

Spreads her intermingling dyes ; 

Down the deep, the miry lane, 

Creaking comes the empty wain, 

And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft, with his accustomed call, 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, — the masters gone, — 

And thresher puts his jacket on ; 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 

Nails the dead kite to the wall. 

Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 

He has penn'd the sheepcot fast ; 

For 'twas but two nights before 

A lamb was eaten on the moor : 

His empty wallet Rover carries, — 

Now for Jack, when near home, tarries ; 

With lolling tongue he runs to try 

If the horse-trough be not dry. 

The milk is settled in the pans. 

And supper messes in the cans ; 

In the hovel carts are wheel'd. 

And both the colts are drove a-field : 

The horses are all bedded up, 

And the ewe is with the tup. 



WHITE. 123 

The snare for Mister Fox is set, 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
With Roger in the holly walk. 

Now on the settle all but Bess 
Are set, to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom and roguish Kate 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things, — 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings; 
Or else tell all the village news, — 
How madam did the 'squire refuse, 
How parson on his tithes was bent. 
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. 
Thus do they, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high ; 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
Had reel'd ; — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate, 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 
Has laid, — while master goes throughout, 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out ; 
The candles safe, the hearth all clear, 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear: 
Then both to bed together creep. 
And joui the general troop of sleep. 



THE SAVOYARD S RETURN. 

O ! YONDER isthe well-known spot. 
My dear, my long-lost native home ; 

Oh, welcome is yon little cot. 

Where I shall rest — no more to roam 



124 WHITE. 

Oh, I have traveil'd far and wide, 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 

Each place, each province I have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband ! 

But all their charms could not prevail 

To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

Of distant climes the false report, 

Allured me from my native land; 
It bade me rove — my sole support 

My cymbals and my saraband. 
The woody dell, the hanging rock, 

The chamois skipping o'er the heights : 
The plain adorn'd with many a flock, 

And oh ! a thousand more delights 
That grace yon dear belov'd retreat. 
Have backward won my weary feet. 

Now safe return'd with wandering tired, 

No more my little home I'll leave ; 
And many a tale of what I've seen 

Shall wile away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wandered far and wide, 

O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband ! 
But all their charms could not prevail 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



WILSON. 125 

John Wilson was born at Paisley, in 1789. After going through 
a preparatory course of study at the University of Glasgow, he was 
entered a fellow-commoner at Magdalen College, Oxford ; and very 
soon obtained some portion of that fame of which he was destined 
to participate so largely. Much of his paternal property was lost 
by the failure of a mercantile concern in which it had been em- 
barked; but enough remained to purchase the elegancies of life : 
he bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on the lake of Winander- 
mere — fit dwelling for a Poet — and continues to inhabit it, when 
his professional duties permit his absence from Edinburgh. In 
1812, he published the Isle of Palms; and the City of the Plague, 
in 1816. In 1820, he became, under circumstances highly honour- 
able to him, a successful candidate for the Chair of Moral Philoso- 
phy, in the University of the Scottish metropolis. He has since 
published but little poetry : his prose tales — " the Trials of Maz'- 
garet Lindsay," " the Foresters," and " Lights and Shadows of 
Scottish Life" — have, however, amply compensated the world for 
his desertion of the Muses; and his contributions to "Blackwood's 
Magazine," which are too strongly marked to leave any doubt of 
their authorship, have established for him a high and enduring 
reputation. The conduct of this Periodical is so universally under- 
stood to be in the hands of the Professor, that we may consider 
ourselves justified in describing him as its Editor. He has long 
upheld its supremacy : the best supported Magazines of England 
have failed competing with it ; because there is no living writer 
whose talents are so versatile, and consequently so fitted to deal 
with the varied topics upon which his judgment or his fancy must 
be employed. His learning is both profound and excursive ; his 
criticism searching and sound; his descriptions of scenery ex- 
quisitely true ; his paintings of human character and passion ad- 
mirable ; his wit and humour delightful, when it does not degene- 
rate into " fun ;" and no writer of modern times has written so 
many delicious eloquent passages which produce, if we may so 
express ourselves, gushes of admiration. The mind of Wilson is a 
remarkable blending of the kindly and the bitter: — his praise is al- 
ways full and hearty ; his censure almost unendurable : he appears 
to have no control over his likings or dislikings ; — at times, pursues 
with almost superhuman wrath, and then, again, becomes so gene- 
11* 



126 WILSON. 

rous and eloquent, that he absolutely makes an author's character, 
and establishes his position by a few sentences of approval. From 
all his criticisms there may be gathered some evidence of a sound 
heart ; of a nature like the Highland breezes — keen, but healthy ; 
often most invigorating when most severe — but which may be 
safely encountered only by those whose stamina is unquestionable. 
The personal appearance of Professor Wilson is very remarkable : 
his frame is, like his mind, powerful and robust. His complexion 
is florid, and his features are finely marked ; the mouth is exqui- 
sitely chiselled, the expression of his countenance is gentle to a 
degree ; but there is " a lurking devil" in his keen gray eye, that 
gives a very intelligible hint to the observer. His forehead is broad 
and high. To us, among all the great men we have ever beheld — 
and they have not been few — there is not one who so throughly 
extorts a mingled sensation of love and fear. 

The poetry of Professor Wilson has not attained the popularity 
to which it is entitled ; probably because when he first published, 
he had to compete witli a formidable rival in his own illustrious 
countryman, and the fame which, in England, nearly at the same 
period, was about to absorb that of all other Bards. His poems 
are, however, full of beauty ; they have all the freshness of the 
heather, — a true relish for nature breaks out in them all: there is 
no puerile or sickly sentimentalism ; — they are the earnest breatli- 
ings of a happy and buoyant spirit ; a giving out, as it were, of the 
breath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They mani- 
fest, moreover, the finest sympatliies with humanity; nothing 
harsh or repining seems to have entered the Poet's thoughts ; they 
may be read as compositions of the highest merit, — as bearing the 
severest test of critical asperity ; but also as graceful and beautiful 
transcripts of nature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appre- 
ciated by all. There is no evidence of" fine phrensy" in his glances 
" from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;" but there is ample 
proof of the depth of his worship, and the fulness of his affection for 
all the objects which "Nature's God" has made graceful and fruit- 
ful. It is worthy of comment, that, as far as we know, Wilson has 
never penned a line of satire, in poetry, — seeming as if his thoughts 
could take in nothing but what was good, and holy, and tranquil- 
lizing, when his associates were the Muses. 



WILSON. 



FROM EDITH AND NORA. 



'Tis a lonely glen ! but the happy child 

Hath friends whom she meets in the morning- wild 

As on she trips, her native stream, 

Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream ; 

And glides away by her twinkling feet 

With a face as bright, and a voice as sweet. 

In the osier bank the ouzel sitting. 

Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting 

From stone to stone, as she glides along, 

Then sinks in the stream with a broken song. 

The lapwing, fearless of his nest. 

Stands looking round with his delicate crest ; 

Or a love-like joy is in his cry, 

As he wheels, and darts, and glances by. 

Is the heron asleep on the silvery sand 

Of his little lake 1 ho ! his wings expand 

As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread. 

Cloud-like he floats o'er the maiden's head. 

She looks to the birchvvood glade, and lo ! 

There is browsing there the mountain roc. 

Who lifts up her gentle eyes — nor moves 

As on glides the form whom all nature loves. 

Having spent in heaven an' hour of mirth, 

The lark drops down to the dewy earth ; 

And in silence smooths his yearning breast 

In the gentle fold of his lowly nest. 



128 WILSON. 

The linnet takes up the hymn, unseen 
In the yellow broom or the bracken green. 
And now, as the morning hours are glowing-, 
From the hillside cots the cocks are crowing : 
And the shepherd's dog is barking shrill 
From the mist fast rising from the hill ; 
And the shepherd's self, with locks of gray. 
Hath blessed the maiden on her way ! 
And now she sees her own dear flock 
On a verdant mound beneath the rock — 
All close together in beauty and love. 
Like the small fair clouds in heaven above ; 
And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight 
Is swimming o'er with a still delight. 
****** 



LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. 

To whom belongs this valley fair, 
That sleeps beneath the filmy air, 

Even like a Jiving thing ? 
Silent — as infant at the breast- 
Save a still sound that speaks of rest, 

That streamlet's murmuring ! 

The heavens appear to love this vale ; 
Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail. 

Or, mid the silence lie ! 
By that blue arch, this beauteous earth 
Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, 

Seems bound unto the sky. 



WILSON. 129 

O ! that this lovely vale were mme, 
Then, from glad youth to calm decline, 

My years would gently glide ; 
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, 
And memory's oft-returning gleams 

By peace be sanctified. 

There would unto my soul be given, 
From presence of that gracious heaven, 

A piety sublime ! 
And thoughts would come of mystic mood, 
To make in this deep solitude 

Eternity of Time 1 

And did I ask to whom belong'd 

This vale 1 1 feel that I have wrong'd 

Nature's most gracious soul ! 
She spreads her glories o'er the earth. 
And all her children, from their birth. 

Are joint-heirs of the whole ! 

Yea, long as Nature's humblest child 
Hath kept her temple undefiled 

By sinful sacrifice ; 
Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, 
He is a monarch, and his throne 

Is built amid the skies ! 



A CHURCHYARD DREAM. 

Methought that in a burial ground 
One still, sad vernal day, 

Upon a little daisied mound 
1 in a slumber lay ; 



130 WILSON. 

While faintly through my dream I heard 
The hymning- of that holy bird, 
Who with more gushing rapture sings 
The higher up in heaven float his unwearied wings ! 

In that my mournful reverie, 

Such song of heaveuly birth, 
The voice seemed of a soul set free 

From this imprisoning earth ; 
Higher and higher still it soared, 
A holy anthem that adored, — 
Till vanished song and singer blest 
In the blue depths of everlasting rest. 

Just then a child in sportive glee 

Came gliding o'er the graves, 
Like a lone bird that on the sea 

Floats dallying with the waves ; 
Upon the vernal flowers awhile 
She pour'd the beauty of her smile, — 
Then laid her bright cheek on the sod, 
And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God. 

The flowers that shine all round her head 

May well be breathing sweet ; 
For flowers are they that spring hath shed, 

To deck her winding sheet ; 
And well the tenderest gleams may fall 
Of sunshine, on that hillock small 
On which she sleeps, — for they have smiled 
O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious child. 

In bridal garments, white as snow, 
A solitary maid 



WILSON. 131 

Doth meekly bring a sunny glow 

Into that solemn shade : 
A churchyard seems a joyful place 
In the visit of so sweet a face ; 
A soul is in that deep blue eye 
Too good to live on earth, — too beautiful to die. 

But Death behind a marble tomb 

Looks out upon his prey ; 
And smiles to know that heavenly bloom 

Is yet of earthly clay. 
Far off I hear a wailing wide, 
And, while I gaze upon that bride, 
A silent wraith before me stands, 
And points unto a grave with cold, pale, clasped hands. 

A matron, beautiful and bright, 

As is the silver moon, 
Whose lustre tames the sparkling light 

Of the starry eyes of June, 
Is shining o'er the churchyard lone ; 
While circlmg her as in a zone, 
Delighted dance five cherubs fair, 
And round their native urn shake wide their golden hair. 

Oh ! children they are holy things, 

In sight of earth and heaven ; 
An angel shields with guardian wings 

The home where they are given. 
Strong power there is in children's tears, — 
And stronger in their lisped prayers ; 
But the vulture stoops down from above, 
And, 'mid her orphan brood, bears off the parent dove. 



133 WILSON. 

The young,— the youthful, — the mature 

Have smiled and all past by, 
As if nought lovely could endure 

Beneath the envious sky ; 
While bow'd with age, and age's woes 
Still near, — yet still far off the close 
Of weary life, yon aged crone 
Can scarce with blind eyes find her husband's fianeral-stone. 

All dead the joyous, bright, and free. 

To whom this life was dear ! 
The green leaves shiver'd from the tree. 

And dangling left the sere ! 
O dim wild world ! — but from the sky 
Down came the glad lark waveringly ; 
And, startled by his liquid mirth, 
I rose to walk in faith the darkling paths of earth. 



THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 

Beside her babe, who sweetly slept, 
A widow'd mother sat and wept 

O'er years of love gone by ; 
And as the sobs thick-gathering came. 
She murmur'd her dead husband's name 

'Mid that sad lullaby. 

Well might that lullaby be sad. 
For not one single friend she had 

On this cold-hearted earth ; 
The sea will not give back its prey, — 
And he was wrapt in foreign clay 

Who gave the orphan birth. 



WILSON. 133 

Steadfastly as a star doth look 
Upon a little murmuring brook, 

She g-azed upon the bosom 
And fair brow of her sleeping son ; — 
" O merciful Heaven ! when I am gone, 

Thine is this earthly blossom !" 

While thus she sat — a sunbeam broke 
Into the room ; — the babe awoke, 

And from his cradle smiled ! 
Ah me ! what kindling smiles met there, 
I know not whether was more fair 

The mother or her child : 

With joy fresh sprung from short alarms, 
The smiler stretched his rosy arms, 

And to her bosom leapt ; 
All tears at once were swept away, 
And, said a face as bright as day, 

" Forgive me — that I wept !" 

Sufferings there are from Nature sprung. 
Ear hath not heard, nor Poet's tongue 

May venture to declare ; 
But this as Holy Writ is sure, 
" The grief she bids us here endure, 

She can herself repair !" 



THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. 

With laughter swimming in thine eye. 
That told youth's heartfelt revelry ! 
12 



134 WILSON. 

And motion changeful as the wing 
Of swallow waken'd by the spring ; 
With accents blithe as voice of May, 
Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay ; 
Circled by joy like planet bright 
That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, — 
Thy image such, in former time. 
When thou, just entering on thy prime. 
And woman's sense in thee combined 
Gently with childhood's simplest mind. 
First taught'st my sighing soul to move 
With hope towards the heaven of love ! 

Now years have given my Mary's face 

A thoughtful and a quiet grace ; — 

Though happy still — yet chance distress 

Hath left a pensive loveliness ! 

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams. 

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams ! 

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, 

Shower blessings on a darling child ; 

Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, 

As if round thy hush'd infant's bed ! 

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone. 

That tells thy heart is all my own. 

Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years, 

With the wife's love, the mother's fears ! 

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime 
Assured, I smile at hoary time ! 
For thou art doom'd in age to know 
The calm that wisdom steals from wo ; 
The holy pride of high intent, 
The glory of a life well spent. 



WILSON. 135 

When earth's affections nearly o'er 
With Peace behind, and Faith before, 
Thou render'st up again to God, 
Untamish'd by its frail abode, 
Thy lustrous soul, — then harp and hymn, 
From bands of sister seraphim, 
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye 
Open in immortality ! 



136 C R A B B E. 

George Crabbe was born on the 24tli of December, 1754, at Aid- 
borough, in SuiFolk, where his father was an officer of the customs. 
He was originally apprenticed to a surgeon-apothecary ; but dis- 
liking the profession, and encouraged by the praise accorded to 
some early attempts at composition, he ventuied to London, and 
had the good fortune to meet a friend in the illustrious Edmund 
Burke; under whose auspices, in 1781, "the Library" was pub- 
lished. " The Village" soon followed ; and both received the praise 
of Dr. Johnson. The Poet, however, had no ambition to become 
an author by profession : he took holy orders, and obtained the 
rectory of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire ; here — away from the busy 
world — in calm and contented tranquillity, the remainder of his 
long life was passed. In 1807, he published a collection of 
" Poems ;" in 1810, " the Borough ;" in 1812, the " Tales ;" and in 
1819, the " Tales of the Hall." The whole of his works have 
Deen recently collected, with the addition of several posthumous 
poems, and published by his son.* 

The character of Mr. Crabbe forms a singular contrast to his 
writings : he was amiable, benevolent, and conciliatory to a degree. 
All who knew him loved him ; 

" In every family 
Alike, in every generation dear, — 
The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend, 
Tried, trusted, and beloved." 

" To him it was recommendation enough to be poor and wretched." 
We quote this passage from the " Life," by his son, which preface 
the edition of his works. It is a gracefully and sensibly written 
biography ; and altogether worthy of the memory of the admirable 
Poet and estimable man. His conversation was easy, fluent, and 
abundant in correct information ; but distinguished chiefly by good 
sense and good feeling. " Kindness, meekness, and comfort were in 
his tongue." He died on the 3d of February, 1832. Mr. Lockhart 
thus describes his person : — " His noble forehead, his bright beam- 
ing eye, without any thing of old age about it — though he was 

* The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe; 6 vols. London. Murray. 



CRABBE. 137 

then, I presume, above seventy — his sweet, and, I would say, inno- 
cent, smile, and the calm, mellow tones of his voice, — all are re- 
produced the moment I open any page of his poetry." A high 
contemporary authority characterizes Crabbe as 

" Nature's sternest painter — yet the best." 

It is certain that those who read his poems derive from them greater 
pain than pleasure ; and while admitting the general truth of his 
pictures, and the accuracy of his portraits, turn from them with a 
feeling of dissatisfaction approaching to disgust. It may be that 

" The fault was not in him— but in mankind ;" 

there can be, however, no doubt that the Poet wilfully exaggerated 
in his descriptions of human vice, and details of human suffering ; 
and that he himself neither believed nor imagined his fellow- 
beings so odious and depraved as he describes them. His desire 
to be original led him into this large error, — to reject the garb in 
which poetry had for ages been wont to array the works of the 
creation ; and to clothe them in a dress quite as unnatural and 
equally opposed to reality. The rustic population of our country 
are neither so wretched nor so degraded as they are, with few 
exceptions, made to appear. The poor, as well as the rich, have 
their vices — but their virtues also. It is not only while writing 
of men and women that Crabbe "looks askance :" he can perceive 
in the people who surround him little that is good, and less that is 
gracious ; but he has neither eye nor ear for the beautiful sights 
and delicious sounds of inanimate nature. To him, the breeze is 
ever harsh and unmusical, — seldom moving except to produce 
wrecks ; and hill, and stream, and valley, are barren, muddy, and 
unprofitable. He contemplates all things, animate and inanimate, 
"through a glass, darkly." The consequence has naturally been, 
that Crabbe never was a popular Poet. Yet the rough energy of 
his descriptions, the vigorous and manly style of his versification, 
the deep though oppressive interest of his stories, and his stern 
maxims of morality, — with a little more of a kindly leaning to- 
wards humanity — must have secured for him universal admiration. 

12* 



C R A B B E. 



THE SANDS. 



Turn to the watery world ! — but who to thee 

(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint — the sea ] 

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, 

When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, 

Its colours changing-, when from clouds and sun 

Shades after shades upon the surface run; 

Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene. 

In limpid blue, and evanescent green ; 

And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie. 

Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye. 

Be it the summer noon : a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above, 
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 
(For heated thus, the w^armer air ascends. 
And with the cooler in its fall contends), — 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, 
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, — 
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand. 
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 
Ships in the calm seem anchor'd ; for they glide 
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide ; 
Art thou not present, this calm scene before, 
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore. 
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more 1 



CRABBE. ' 139 

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make 

The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; 

As an awaken'd giant with a frown 

Might show 'his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. 

View now the winter storm ! above, one cloud. 
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud ; 
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before 
Had roU'd in view of boding men on shore; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form, 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 

All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam, 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising, — all the deep 
Is restless change ; the waves so swell'd and steep, 
Breaking and sinking, — and the sunken swells, 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace, 
As if contending in their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force. 
And then, reflowing, take their grating course. 
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last. 



ROGER CUFF. 

Now to his grave was Roger Cuff" convey'd, 
And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid : 
Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd and found 
His brethren three, — and thrice they wish'd him drown'd. 



140 CRABBE. 

" Is this a landman's love 1 Be certain, then, 
We part for ever !" — and they cried, " Amen !" 

His words were truth's. Some forty summers fled, 
His brethren died, his kin supposed him dead : 
Three nephews these — one sprightly niece, and one 
Less near in blood — they call'd him surly John ; — 
He work'd in woods apart from all his kind, 
Fierce were his looks, and moody was his mind. 

For home the sailor now began to sigh : 
" The dogs are dead — and I'll return and die ; 
When all I have, my gains, in years of care, 
The younger Cufts with kinder souls shall share : — 
Yet hold ! I'm rich ; — with one consent they'll say, 
' You're welcome. Uncle, as the flowers in May,' 
No ; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd, — 
And best befriend the lads who treat me best." 

Now all his kindred, — neither rich nor poor, — 
Kept the wolf, want, some distance from the door. 

In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate. 
And begg'd for aid, as he described his state : 
But stern was George ; — " Let them who had thee strong 
Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along ; 
To us a stranger while your limbs would move, 
From us depart, and try a stranger's love ; — 
Ha ! dost thou murmur ?'' — for, in Roger's throat, 
Was ' Rascal !' rising with disdainful tone. 

To pious James he then his prayer address'd : 
" Good lack," quoth James, " thy sorrows pierce my breast ! 
And had 1 wealth, as have my brethren twain, 
One board should feed us, and one roof contain : 
But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray ; 
And so farewell ! — Heaven help thee on thy way !" 
" Scoundrel !" said Roger, (but apart,) — and told 
His case to Peter. Peter too was cold : 



CRABBE. 141 

"The rates are high; we have a-many poor ; — 
But I will think," he said, and shut the door. 

Then the ^ay niece the seeming pauper press'd : 
" Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd ; — 
Akin to thine is this declining frame, 
And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name." 

"A vaunt ! begone !" the courteous maiden said, 
" Thou vile impostor ! Uncle Roger's dead : 
I hate thee, beast ; thy look my spirit shocks ! 
Oh ! that I saw thee starving in the stocks !" 

" My gentle Niece !" he said, — and sought the wood. 
" I hunger, fellow ; prithee give me food !" 

" Give ! am I rich '? This hatchet take, and try 
Thy proper strength, — nor give those limbs the lie : 
Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal. 
Nor whine out woes thine own right hand can heal : 
And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg, 
Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg." 

" Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view," 
Old Roger said : — " thy words are brave and true ; 
Come, live with me, — we'll vex those scoundrel boys; 
And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. 
Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share, 
With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care ; 
We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap, 
And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep." 

Such was their life : but when the woodman died, 
His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied, — 
In vain : he shut, with stern rebuke, the door. 
And, dying, built a refuge for the poor ; 
With this restriction, — that no Cuff should share 
One meal, or shelter for one moment there. 



148 CRABBE. 



STANZAS. 

Let me not have this gloomy view 

About my room, around my bed ; 
But morning roses, wet with dew, 

To cool my burning brows instead. 
As flow'rs that once in Eden grew, 

Let them their fragrant spirits shed ; 
And every day the sweets renew, 

Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 
Oh ! let the herbs I loved to rear 

Give to my sense their perfum'd breath ; 
Let them be placed about my bier, 

And grace the gloomy house of death, 
ril have my grave beneath a hill. 

Where only Lucy's self shall know ; 
Where runs the pure pellucid rill 

Upon its gravelly bed below : 
There violets on the borders blow. 

And insects their soft light display, — 
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow. 

The cold phosphoric fires decay. 

That is the grave to Lucy shown, — 

The soil a pure and silver sand, 
The green cold moss above it grown, 

Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand : 
In virgin earth, till then unturn'd, 

There let my maiden form be laid. 
Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, 

Nor for new guest that bed be made. 



143 



There will the lark, — the lamb, in sport, 

In air, — on earth, — securely play, 
And Lucy to my grave resort. 

As innocent, — but not so gay. 
I will not have the churchyard ground, 

With bones all black and ugly grown. 
To press my shivering body round. 

Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, 

In clammy beds of cold blue clay, 
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep, 

And on the shrouded bosom prey; 
I will not have the bell proclaim 

When those sad marriage rites begin, — 
And boys, without regard or shame, 

Press the vile mouldering masses in. 

Say not, it is beneath my care ; 

I cannot these cold truths allow : — 
These thoughts may not afflict me there. 

But, oh ! they vex and tease me now. 
Raise not a tarf, nor set a stone. 

That man a maiden's grave may trace ; 
But thou, my Lucy, come alone. 

And let affection find the place. 

O ! take me from a world I hate, — 
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ; 

And, in some pure and blessed state, 
Let me my sister minds behold : 



144 CRABBE. 

From gross and sordid views refined, 
Our heaven of spotless love to share,- 

For only generous souls design'd, 
And not a man to meet us there. 



WOMAN. 

Place the white man on Afric's coast, 

Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, 
Who of their scorn to Europe boast, 

And paint their very demons white : 
There, while the sterner sex disdains 

To soothe the woes they cannot feel, 
Woman will strive to heal his pains. 

And weep for those she cannot heal. 
Hers is warm pity's sacred glow, — 

From all her stores she bears a part ; 
And bids the spring of hope reflow. 

That languished in the fainting heart. 

" What though so pale his haggard face. 

So sunk and sad his looks," — she cries : 
" And far unlike our nobler race, 

With crisped locks and rolling eyes ; 
Yet misery marks him of our kind, — 

We see him lost, alone, afraid ! 
And pangs of body, griefs in mind. 
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. 

" Perhaps in some far distant shore, 

There are who in these forms delight ; 
Whose milky features please them more 
Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright : 



C R A B B E. 145 

Of such may be his weeping wife, 
Such children for their sire may call : 

And if we spare his ebbing life, 

Our kindness may preserve them all." 

Thus her compassion woman shows, 

Beneath the line her acts are these ; 
Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows 
Can her warm flow of pity freeze ; — 
" From some sad land the stranger comes, 
Where joys like ours are never found ; 
Let's soothe him in our happy homes. 

Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. 

" 'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer. 
To see the famish'd stranger fed ; 
To milk for him the mother-deer, 
To smooth for him the furry bed. 
The powers above our Lapland bless 
With good no other people know ; 
T' enlarge the joys that we possess. 
By feeling those that we bestow I" 

Thus in extremes of cold and heat, 

Where wandering man may trace his kind ; 

Wherever grief and want retreat, 
In woman they compassion find : 

She makes the female breast her seat, 
And dictates mercy to the mind. 

Man may the sterner virtues know. 

Determined justice, truth severe ; 
But female hearts with pity glow, 

And woman holds affliction dear : 
13 



146 CRABBE. 

For guiltless woes her sorrows flow, 

And suffering vice compels her tear, — 
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below, 

And bid life's fairer views appear. 
To woman's gentle kind we owe 

What comforts and delights us here ; 
They its gay hopes on youth bestow, 

And care they soothe— and age they cheer. 



SCOTT. 147 

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 
1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and 
honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of six- 
teen, he was afflicted with ill health ; and, either from the weak- 
ness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occa- 
sioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, 
and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed 
among the hills and dales of the borders — " famous in war and 
verse" — "where," we quote from Allan Cunningham, " almost every 
stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, 
or single combat ; and every stream, although its waters be so in- 
considerable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they 
run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy 
chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the 
world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. 
In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, 
became an advocate at the Scottish bar : but after a few years' 
attendance at the Courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself to 
literature. He had, however, reached his 25th year, before he 
manifested any desire, or rather intention, to contend for fame in 
a path so intricate ; and as he himself states, his first attempt ended 
in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service of the trunk-maker. 
Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802, " the Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border" obtained a more fortunate destiny ; 
and about three years afterwards, the publication of "the Lay of 
the Last Minstrel," completely established the fame of the writer. 
From the appearance of this Poem, the life of the Poet, until 
towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. 
Marmion issued from the press in 1808 ; the Lady of the Lake, in 
1810 ; Don Roderick, in 1811 ; Rokeby, in 1813 ; the Lord of the 
Isles, in 1814 ; the Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless 
appeared anonymously, — the former, in 1813; and the latter, in 
1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced 
with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a 
baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers 
became bankrupts ; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,— ^ 
not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was 
ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary 



148 SCOTT. 

responsibilities to a ruinous extent. He encountered adversity with 
manly fortitude ; asked and obtained from his creditors no other 
boon than time ; and in about four years had actually paid off 
nearly X70,000 of the debt. The price of almost superhuman 
labour was, however, to be exacted. In 1831, he was attacked 
with gradual paralysis : in the autumn of that year he was pre- 
vailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the south of Europe ; 
— the experiment was imsuccessful in restoring him to health : he 
returned to Abbotsford, and died there on the 21st of September, 
1832. His loss was mourned not only by his own country, but in 
every portion of the civilized globe ; for his fame had spread 
throughout all parts of it : and there is scarcely a language into 
which his works have not been translated. The kindness of his 
heart, the benevolence of his disposition, the thorough goodness of 
his nature, were appreciated by all who had the privilege of his 
acquaintance ; but his genius is the vast and valuable property of 
mankind. 

In person he v/as tall, and had the appearance of a powerful and 
robust man. His countenance has been rendered familiar by artists 
in abundance ; the justest notion of it is conveyed by the bust of 
Chantrey. Its expression was peculiarly benevolent ; his forehead 
was broad, and remarkably high. 

We have left ourselves but little space to comment upon the 
poetry of Sir Walter Scott ; his fame as a Poet was eclipsed by his 
reputation as a Novelist ; and the appearance of a star of greater 
magnitude drew from him, by degrees, the popularity he had so 
long engrossed. Yet we venture to hazard an opinion, that if it 
be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his 
prose ; and that Waverley and Ivanhoe will perish before Marmion 
and the Lady of the Lake. We can find no rare and valuable qua- 
lity in the former that we may not find in the latter. A deeply 
interesting and exciting story, glorious and true pictures of scenery, 
fine and accurate portraits of character, clear and impressive ac- 
counts of ancient customs, details of battles — satisfying to the fancy, 
yet capable of enduring the sternest test of truth — are to be found 
in the one class as well as in the other. In addition, we have the 
most graceful and harmonious verse ; and the style is undoubtedly 
such, as equally to delight those who possess, and those who are 
without, a refined poetical taste. 



SCOTT. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 



Enchantress, farewell ! who so oft has decoy'd me, 

At the close of the evening though woodlands to roam. 
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me 

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. 
Farew^ell ! and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, 

The language alternate of rapture and wo ; 
Oh ! none but some lover, whose heartstrings are breaking. 

The pang that I feel at our parting can know. 

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow. 

Or pale disappointment to darken my way, 
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow. 

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day ! 
But when friends drop around us in life's weary weaning, 

The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage ; 
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining. 

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, 

To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain ; 
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, 

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain : 
As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, 

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er. 
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers, — 

Farewell then, enchantress ! I meet thee no more ! 
13* 



150 



SCOTT. 



HUNTING SONG. 



Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
On the mountain dawns the day. 
All the jolly chase is here, 
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear 
Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ; 
Merrily, merrily, mingle they, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
The mist has left the mountain gray ; 
Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 
And foresters have busy been. 
To track the buck in thicket green ; 
Now we come to chaunt our lay, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the greenwood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size : 
We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; 
You shall see him brought to bay, — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chaunt the lay, 
Waken, lords and ladies gay ; 
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 
Run a course as well as we : 



SCOTT. 151 



Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 
Think of this, and rise with day, — 
Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



LOCHINVAR. 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar has come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border 'his steed was the best ; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, 
He rode all unarra'd, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone ; 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented — the gallant came late — 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby-hall, 

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ; 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 

" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar 1" 

" I long woo'd your daughter, — my suit you denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide. 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 



152 SCOTT. 

There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up ; 
He quafF'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup, — 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : 
" Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, — 

And the bride-maidens whisper'd " 'Twere better by far 

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !" 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, — 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 

" She is won ! we are gone, over bush, loch, and scaur ; 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Grsemes of the Netherby clan, — 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar 1 



SCOTT. 153 



LULLABY ON AN INFANT CHIEF. 

O HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, — 
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, 
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo, 
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo. 

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows. 
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 

O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come. 
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum ; 
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may. 
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 



HELLVELLYN. 

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, 

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, 

And starting around me the echoes replied. 
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, 
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending. 
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. 



154 SCOTT. 

Dark green was the spot mid the brown meadow heather, 
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay, — 
Like the course of an outcast abandon'd to weather, 

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 
The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 

When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou 
start 1 
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number. 

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart 1 
And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him, 
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him — 

Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart ] 

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; 

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: 

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleam- 
ing, 

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming. 

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming. 
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, 

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb ; 

When, wilder'd he drops from some cliff huge in stature, 
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 



SCOTT. 155 

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying-, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 
With one faithful friend to witness thy dying, 
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ] 

Why weep ye by the tide 1 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen," — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha' 

His sword in battle keen," — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain o' gold ye sail not lack. 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair : 
And you, the foremost o' them a', 

Sail ride our forest queen," — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



156 SCOTT. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmered fair; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her both by bower and ha,' 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



NORA s vow. 

Hear what Highland Nora said, 
" The earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die, 
And none be left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear. 
And all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valour lost or won, 
I would not wed the earlie's son." 

" A maiden's vows,'^ old Galium spoke, 
" Are lightly made, and lightly broke ; 
The heather on the mountain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light r 
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
That lustre deep from glen and brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the earlie's son." 

" The swan," she said, " the lake's clear breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn, 



SCOTT. 

Our kilted clans, when blood is high, 
Before their foes may turn and fly ; 
But r, were all these marvels done, 
Would never wed the earlie's son." 

Still in the water-lily's shade 

Her wonted nest the wild swan made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river 

To shun the clash of foeman's steel. 

No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel, 

But Nora's heart is lost and won, — 

She's wedded to the earlie's son ! 



14 



157 



158 SOTHEBY. 

William Sotheby, the eldest son of Colonel Sotheby, of the Guards, 
was born in London, on the 9th of November, 1757. He was edu- 
cated at Harrow ; and at the age of seventeen purchased a com- 
mission in the 1 0th Dragoons : — his taste for literature was culti- 
vated with great assiduity while in " country quarters" with his 
regiment. In 1780, he quitted the army, and purchased Beirs 
Mount, near Southampton, — a place which had been celebrated as 
the residence of the Earl of Peterborough, and by the frequent 
visits of Pope, to whom allusion is made by Mr. Sotheby in one 
of the most graceful of his Sonnets : — 

"Underneath the gloom 
Of yon old oak a skilled magician sung: 
Oft at his call these sunny glades among, 
Thy guardian sylphs, Belinda, sportive play'd; 
And Eloisa sighed in yon sequestered shade." 

Here Mr. Sotheby lived for several years, devoting his time to the 
more diligent study of the Classics, to the translation of many of 
the minor Greek and Latin Poets, and to the production of origi- 
nal compositions. His desire for literary society and distinction, 
however, induced him, in 1791, to fix his permanent residence in 
the Metropolis. He was soon elected a fellow of the Royal and 
Antiquarian Societies ; and in 1798, published a translation of the 
Oberon of Wieland. This was one of the earliest attempts to 
introduce the English reader to the poetry of Germany : its recep- 
tion encouraged Mr. Sotheby to proceed in the path he had chosen : 
he subsequently translated the Georgics, and, at a very advanced 
period of life, the Iliad and the Odyssey. His poetical works are 
numerous : they afford proofs of an elegant taste and a matured 
udgment ; and if they failed in obtaining extensive popularity, 
happily for the writer he was placed under circumstances which 
rendered the approbation of a circle of accomplished friends a suf- 
ficient recompense for his labours. In 1816, he visited Italy ; and 
wrote a series of Poems, which, a {ev/ years afterwards, he pub- 
lished under the general title " Italy." • Mr. Sotheby died in Lon- 
don, on the 30th of December, 1 833. Few men have been more 
warmly esteemed in private life ; and, although we should unduly 
estimate the character of his mind if we described it as of a very 



S T H E B Y. 159 

high order, his writings afford abundant proofs of an elegant and 
refined taste, and a true relish for all that is sound and excellent 
in literature. He presents a remarkable instance of industry and 
energy in old age. He had passed his seventieth year before he 
commenced his translation of Homer, which he lived to complete. 
To this extraordinary undertaking, it is not our province to refer ; 
but we feel assured that all who are acquainted with the poem, 
" Italy," will consider us justified in classing him among the 
better and more enduring of the Poets of Great Britain. Of a long 
list of poetical productions, this, however, is the only one to which 
especial reference may be made. He was seldom happy in his 
choice of subjects ; and wrote, as we have intimated, only because 
composition afforded an agreeable employment. He appears to 
have been but little anxious for extended fame ; and of course had 
no desire to render his labour profitable. While in London, he 
was usually surrounded by those whose tastes were similar to his 
own ; and, it is said, that the less prosperous professors of litera- 
ture and science found in him a generous and sympathizing friend. 
He was, we believe — and unhappily the character is as rare as it 
is admirable — -a patron to whom we can trace but few acts of 
patronage ; one of those who 

" Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." 

The plan of his poem necessarily led him among all the grander 
and more beautiful objects of Nature, in the classic land through 
which he travelled. He describes them in a manner at once grace- 
ful and graphic ; and it would be difficult to find any writer who 
more clearly and distinctly brings them before the reader. It is, 
however, in allusions to the ancient histories of the Italian cities 
that he most excels. At times, he rises into absolute sublimity : 
there are passages in his poem that would not lose by comparison 
with the most vigorous and energetic compositions in the language. 
He was a scholar, and "a ripe and good one;" occasionally, the 
hue academic is over his page, but he never renders it repulsive. 
It will not be easy now-a-days, to obtain readers for his volimie ; 
but we venture to assert, that those who may be induced to peruse 
it, will marvel that his popularity should have been so limited. 



SOTHEBY. 



SALVATOR. 



Where stood Salvator, when with all his storms 

Around him winter rav'd, 

When being, none save man, the tempest brav'd 1 

When on her mountain crest 

Tlie eagle sank to rest, 

Nor dar'd spread out her pennons to the blast : 

Nor, till the whirlwind passed, 

The famish'd wolf around the sheep-cote prowl'd ] 

Where stood Salvator, when the forest howl'd, 

And the rock-rooted pine in all its length 

Crash'd, prostrating its strength 1 

Where stood Salvator, when the summer cloud 
At noon-day, to Ausonia direr far 
Than winter, and its elemental war, 
Gather'd the tempest, from whose ebon shroud. 
That cross'd like night a sky of crimson flame, 
Stream'd ceaselessly the fire-bolts' forked aim: 
While hurricanes, whose wings were frore with hail, 
Cut sheer the vines, and o'er the harvest vale 
Spread barrenness] Where was Salvator found, 
When all the air a bursting sea became. 
Deluging earth 1— On Terni's cliff he stood, 
The tempest sweeping round. 
I see him where the spirit of the storm 
His daring votary led : 
Firm stands his foot on the rock's topmost head, 



S T H E B Y. 161 

That reels above the rushing and the roar 

Of deep Vellino.— In the glen below, 

Again I view him on the reeling shore, 

Where the prone river, after length of course, 

Collecting all its force. 

An avalanche cataract, whirl'd in thunder o'er 

The promontory's height, 

Bursts on the rock : while round the mountain brow. 

Half, half the flood rebounding in its might, 

Spreads wide a sea of foam evanishing in light. 



ROME. 

I SAW the ages backward roll'd, 
The scenes long past restore : 
Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold. 
When first the Trojan stept on Tyber's shore— 
The shepherds in the forum pen their fold ; 
And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed. 
Goads with prone spear the heifer's foaming speed. 
Where Rome, in second infancy, once more 
Sleeps in her cradle. But— in that drear waste. 
In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung 
From cliff to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock 
Lour'd o'er the untended flock. 
And eagles on its crest their aerie hung : 
And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when blaz'd 
The lightning, and the savage in the storm 
Some unknown godhead heard, and, awe-struck, gaz'd 
On Jove's imagin'd form : — 
And in that desert, when swoln Tyber's wave 
Went forth the twins to save, 
14* 



162 



SOTHEBY. 



Their reedy cradle floating on his flood : 

While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, 

While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath. 

And mingled with their food 

The spirit of her blood, 

As o'er them seen to breathe 

With fond reverted neck she hung. 

And lick'd in turn each babe, and formed with fostering 

tongue : 
And when the founder of imperial Rome 
Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof, 
His predatory home. 

And hung in triumph round his straws-thatched roof 
The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the pride 
Of branching antlers wide : 
And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar 
His voice, that on the mountain echoes roU'd, 
Stern preluding the war : 

And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold, 
And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den, 
Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms of barbarous 

men: 
Then might be seen by the presageful eye 
The vision of a rising realm unfold, 
And temples roof 'd with gold. 
And in the gloom of that remorseless time, 
When Rome the Sabine seiz'd, might be foreseen 
In the first triumph of successful crime, 
The shadowy arm of one of giant birth 
Forging a chain for earth : 
And tho' slow ages roll'd their course between, 
The form as of a Caesar, when he led 
His war-worn legions on. 
Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful Rubicon. 



S T H E B Y. 163 

Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been foretold 
By word of human wisdom. But — what v/ord, 
Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet ! heard, 
When Rome ^Vas marble, and her temples gold, 
And the globe Caesar's footstool, who, when Rome 
View'd th' incommunicable name divine 
Link a Faustina to an Antonine 
On their polluted temple ; who but thou. 
The prophet of the Lord ! what word, save thine, 
Rome's utter desolation had denounc'd ? 
Yet, ere that destin'd time, 
The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth. 
Ring from her palace roofs. — Hear'st thou not yet, 
Metropolis of earth ! 

A voice borne back on every passing wind, 
Wherever man has birth, 
One voice, as from the lip of human kind, 
The echo of thy fame 1 — Flow they not yet, 
As flow'd of yore, down each successive age 
The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage. 
To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime, 
Where genius dwells enthron'd 1 — 

Rome ! thou art doom'd to perish, and thy days. 
Like mortal man's, are number'd : number'd all. 
Ere each fleet hour decays. 
Though pride yet haunt thy palaces, though art 
Thy sculptured marbles animate ; 
Though thousands, and ten thousands throng thy gate ; 
Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart 
Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore : 
Thy second reign shall pass, — pass like thy reign of yore. — 



164 S T H E B Y. 



THE GROTTO OF EGERIA. 

Can I forget that beauteous day, 
When shelter'd from the burning" beam, 
First in thy haunted grot I lay. 
And loos'd my spirit to its dream, 
Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid 
With ivy, dark with many a braid 
That clasp'd its tendrils to retain 
The stone its roots had writh'd in twain ] 
No zephyr on the leaflet play'd, 
No bent grass bow'd its slender blade, 
The coiled snake lay slumber bound : 
All mute, all motionless around. 
Save, livelier, while others slept. 
The lizard on the sunbeam leapt. 
And louder, while the groves are still, 
The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill, 
As if their chirp could charm alone 
Tir'd noontide witli its unison. 

Stranger ! that roam'st in solitude ! 
Thou, too, 'mid tangling bushes rude. 
Seek in the glen, yon heights between, 
A rill more pure than Hippocrene, 
That from a sacred fountain fed 
The stream that fill'd its marble bed. 
Its marble bed long since is gone, 
And the stray water struggles on. 
Brawling thro' weeds and stones its way. 
There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day. 
Nature languishes in light, 
Pass within the gloom of night, 



SOTHEBY. 165 

Where the cool grot's dark arch o'ershades 

Thy temples, and the waving braids 

Of maijy a fragrant brier that weaves 

Its blossom thro' the ivy leaves. 

Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof, 

Where the moss mats its thickest woof, 

Shalt hear the gather'd ice- drops fall 

Regular, at interval. 

Drop after drop, one after one. 

Making music on the stone. 

While every drop, in slow decay. 

Wears the recumbent nymph away. 

Thou, too, if ere thy youthful ear 

Thriird the Latain lay to hear, 

Lull'd to slumber in that cave, 

Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave ; 

A goddess, who there deign'd to meet, 

A mortal from Rome's regal seat. 

And o'er the gushing of her fount, 

Mysterious truths divine to earthly ear recount. 



166 KEATS. 

John Keats, one of the most poetical of Poets, and therefore by 
nature one of the most refined of men, was of the humblest origin, 
having been born, October the 29th, 1796, at a livery-stable in 
Moorfields, which belonged to his family. He received the rudi- 
ments of a classical education at the school of Mr. Clarke, at 
Enfield, where, in the person of the master's son, Mr. Charles 
Cowden Clarke, the editor of the " Riches of Chaucer," he had the 
luck of finding a friend possessed of discernment enough to see his 
genius, and warm-heartedness to encourage it. He was after- 
wards apprenticed to a surgeon and apothecary ; but inheriting a 
small independence (which, however, he used in the most generous 
manner), he did not stop long with him, but devoted himself en- 
tirely to poetry. Mr. Clarke introduced him to Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
and Mr. Leigh Hunt, through the medium of the " Examiner," 
to the public, — which introduction, while it procured instant re- 
cognition of his genius, attracted towards him, in consequence of 
the party-politics then raging, the hostility of the critics on the 
opposite side, who paid him the unhappy compliment of being 
unusually bitter and ungenerous. The result was, not his death, 
as some have supposed, — but undoubtedly an embitterment of the 
causes which were then leading to it, and which originated in a 
consumptive tendency. Mr. Keats left England in the year 1820, 
to try the warmer climate of Italy, and, on the 24th of February, 
in the year following, died at Rome in the arms of his friend, Mr. 
Severn, the artist, who had accompanied him on the voyage, and 
who attended his bedside like a brother. Mr. Shelley, who love(f 
him, and who enthusiastically admired his genius (as he has 
evinced in the beautiful elegy, entitled " Adonis"), irivited him to 
come and take up his abode with himself; and he would have done 
so, had life been spared him. But fate had disposed otherwise ; 
and the ashes of his inviter, no great while afterwards, went to 
take up their own abode in the same burial-ground. His death 
was embittered by a passion lie had for a young lady, who returned 
his affection ; but, amidst all liis sufferings, his love of poetical 
beauty did not forsake him. He said, in anticipation of his grave, 
that he already " felt the daisies growing over him." He requested, 
however, in the anguish of disappointed hope, that his friends 
would inscribe upon his tomb, " Here lies one whose name was 
writ in water ;" and they did so. 



KEATS. 167 

Mr. Keats was under the middle size, and somewhat large 
above, in proportion to his lower limbs, — which, however, were 
neatly formed ; and he had any thing in his dress and general 
demeanour but that appearance of "laxity," which has been 
strangely attributed to him in a late publication. In fact, he had 
so much of the reverse, though in no unbecoming degree, that he 
might be supposed to maintain a certain jealous care of the ap- 
pearance and bearing of a gentleman, in the consciousness of his 
genius, and perhaps not without some sense of his origin. His 
face was handsome and sensitive, with a look in the eyes at once 
earnest and tender ; and his hair grew in delicate brown ringlets, 
of remarkable beauty. 

Mr. Keats may truly be pronounced a Poet of the most poetical 
order, for he gave himself up entirely to the beautiful, and had 
powers of expression equal to an excess of sensibility. His earlier 
poems, especially the " Endymion," are like a luxuriant wilderness 
of flowers and weeds (" weeds of glorious feature") ; his latest, the 
" Hyperion," was a growing wood of oaks, from which the deepest 
oracles of the art might have been looked for. Indeed, there they 
were, as far as he gave his thoughts utterance. It has been justly 
said, that he is " the greatest young Poet that ever appeared in the 
language ;" that is to say, the greatest that did not live to be old, and 
whose whole memory will be identified with something both young 
and great. His lyrics (the Odes to the Nightingale and the Gre- 
cian Vase) are equal to the very finest we possess, both for subtile 
feeding and music. His "Eve of St. Agnes," is as full of beauty 
as the famous painted window he describes in it ; and there was 
such a profusion in him of fancies and imaginations, analogous to 
the beautiful forms of the genius of the ancient Poets, that a uni- 
versity-man expressed his astonishment at hearing he was not a 
Greek scholar. Of our lately deceased Poets, if you want imagina- 
tive satire, or bitter wailing, you must go to the writings of Lord 
Byron ; if a thoughtful, dulcet, and wild dreaminess, you must go 
to Coleridge ; if a startling appeal to the first elements of your 
nature and sympathies (most musical also), to Shelley ; if a 
thorough enjoyment of the beautiful — for beauty's sake — like a 
walk on a summer's noon in a land of woods and meadows you 
must embower yourself in the luxuries of Keats. 



KEATS. 



MADELINE. FROM " ISABELLA. 



A CASEMENT high and triple-arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device. 
Innumerable of stains, and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep damask wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

On,e minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full throated ease. 



KEATS. 169 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of ^ Flora and the country green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves "hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs, 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Thro' verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 
15 



170 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time, 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



KEATS. 171 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu !. the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream 1 

Fled is that music :— Do I wake or sleep ] 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape ! 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these 1 What maidens loth I 

What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape 1 
What pipes and timbrels '? What wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 



172 KEATS. 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice 1 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest 1 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ] 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with breed 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



KEATS. 173 



SONNETS. 



To one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment 1 

Returning home at evening, with an ear, 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by ; 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own ; 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent : 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as .on a throne, 
And half forget what world or worldling meant. 
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me. 

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing. 
And float with them about the summer waters. 
15* 



174 KEATS, 



STANZAS. 



In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree. 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them. 

With a sleety whistle through them ; 

Nor frozen thawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy brook, 

Thy babblings ne'er remember 

Apollo's summer look; 

But with a sweet forgetting, 

They stay their crystal fretting, 

Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would t'were so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy 1 
To know the change and feel it. 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it. 
Was never said in rhvme. 



KEATS. 175 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom friend of the maturing- sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run ; 
Tc bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flower for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease. 

For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store 1 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting, careless, on a granary floor, — 

Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind : 
Or, on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swarth and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleamer hou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or, by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are thy songs of spring ] Ay, where are they 1 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue : 



176 



Then, in a wailful choir, the small knats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft, 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now, with treble soft. 
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



HOGG. 177 

James Hogg was born on the 25th of January, 1772, in a cottage 
on the banks of the Ettrick, in the shire of Selkirk. He was 
descended from a race of shepherds who had inhabited, for centu- 
ries, the sequestered district in which was the Poet's birthplace : 
humble as was the calling of his father, it was not beyond the 
reach of misfortune. When James was scarcely more than a 
child, he was compelled to labour for his own living : and engaged 
himself to herd cows, with a neighbouring farmer. The good 
seed had, however, been sown; — sound and upright principles had 
taken root in his mind, and his fancy had been nursed, uncon- 
sciously, by his mother, whose memory was stored with old border 
ballads. His elder brother states, that James was, what is called 
in the language of his native valley, a soft, " actionlcss" boy ; and 
that in early life he gave no token of the genius which afterwards 
astonished and delighted his countrymen. The scenery amid 
which he lived and rambled, the utter seclusion in which the shep- 
herds of Ettrick dwelt, and his lonely, yet happy, occupation 
among his native glens and mountains, gathered the intellectual 
wealth which the simple shepherd was destined to scatter among 
mankind : the " actionless" boy soon gave proof that he was also 
contemplative ; he spoke songs long before he could write them. 
For many years, until indeed he had grown to manhood, his fame 
was limited to his own neighbourhood ; at length, chance conducted 
him to Edinburgh ; a small printed volume was the result ; it was 
soon followed by " the Mountain Bard :" and the world began to 
speak of the Shepherd of Ettrick. Still he continued to " tend his 
flock ;" and it was not until after his reputation had very widely 
spread, that he commenced farming on his own account. In 1821, 
he took the farm of Mount Bcnger ; it was a disastrous attempt to 
better his fortunes, and it exhausted the money his literary labours 
had collected. From the period of his first appearance before the 
public, he passed scarcely a year without furnishing something for 
the press. The Mountain Bard was followed by the Queen's 
Wake;— the Witch of Fife, and Queen Hynde, established his 
fame as a Poet ; and the Border Tales, and other publications gave 
him a prominent station as a writer of prose. Fortunate in the 
friendship of such men as Scott and Wilson, happy in his home, 
and admired by the world, with a disposition naturally cheerful, he 



178 HOGG. 

had but one drawback from the happiness of life : his pecuniary 
circumstances were by no means prosperous towards the close of 
it ; and he left a widow and five children in poverty. He died on 
the 21st of November, 1835. 

Hogg visited London in 1833; — although accustomed to the 
comparatively rude society of mouiataineers, he was perfectly easy 
and self-possessed — because natural — in the polished circles into 
which he was eagerly welcomed. His glowing and kindly counte- 
nance, his cheerful smile, his rousing and hearty laugli, the origi- 
nalit}'' of his remarks, his gentle satire, his continual flow of wit, 
the rough but becoming manner in which he sang his own ballads, 
gained for him, personally, the "golden opinions" which had pre- 
viously been accorded to his genius. He was somewhat above the 
middle height, — of a muscular frame ; he had a sharp, clear, gray 
.eye, an expansive forehead, and sandy hair ; and the soundness of 
his constitution was evident from the fresh and ruddy colour of his 
cheeks. He was kind and liberal to a degree ; and, although he 
manifested, occasionally, the irritability of his " class," all his 
friends loved him. 

If we are to class James Hogg among uneducated Poets, he 
must undoubtedly rank at the head of them. But as he had lived 
thirty years before he made the world acquainted with his powers, 
we can scarcely consider his productions as the mere offspring of 
his mind, unformed by knowledge and unaided by experience. He 
was unquestionably a man of fine original genius; and he confined 
himself to those topics with which his early habits and associations 
rendered him familiar. His happiest and most popular poems are 
those which dwell most on the scenes and legends of the hills and 
valleys of his native land. There is perhaps a national tone and 
feeling in his writings, in which we Southrons do not wholly sym- 
pathize ; but in his own country we must consider him to be rather 
under than overrated. Born in the very humblest condition of 
life, reared under circumstances most adverse to the growth and 
developement of mind, he obtained a popularity second only to that 
of Burns ; — he has written his name on enduring tablets in the 
literary annals of Great Britain, and it will go down to posterity 
with that of the most eminent of his many eminent countrymen. 
Such is the triumph which genius, even unaided, can achieve. 



HOGG. 



THE STRANDED SHIP. 

My spirit dreams of a peaceful bay 

Where once a ship in beauty lay, 

Floating between the waves and air 

Each glad to claim a thing so fair. 

Her white wings to the sunshine gleaming 

In anchored rest, — bright ensigns streaming, 

As if they w-ished away to fly 

From the proud ship which they glorify. 

Alas ! her wings no more expanded. 
High on the beach the ship is stranded ; 
And, reft of motion, never more 
Must walk above the ocean roar ! 
Yet the creatures of the deep, too blest 
Within their sunless caves to rest. 
In the genial warmth of upper day 
Are rolling in unwieldy play ; 
Or shooting upwards through the light 
With arrowy motion silvery bright, 
The silent summer air employ 
For their region of capricious joy ! 
While fairy shells in myriads lying. 
The smooth, hard sand in lustre dyeing. 
Encircle with a far-seen chain 
Of glory, — the most glorious main ! 

* * * ijc * >f; * 



180 



HOGG. 



THE WEE H0U3IE. 



I LIKE thee weel, my wee auld house, 

Though laigh thy wa's an' flat the riggin' ; 
Though round thy lum the sourock grows, 

An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'. 
Lang hast thou happit mine and me, 

My head's grown gray aneath thy kipple ; 
And aye thy ingle cheek was free 

Baith to the blind man an' the cripple. 

What gart my ewes thrive on the hill, 

An' kept my little store increasin' 1 
The rich man never wish'd me ill. 

The poor man left me aye his blessin'. 
Troth I maun greet wi' thee to part, 

Though to a better house I'm flittin' ; 
Sic joys will never glad my heart 

As I've had by thy hall an sittin'. 

My bonny bairns around me smiled. 

My sonsy wife sat by me spinning, — 
Aye lilting o'er her ditties wild. 

In notes sae artless an' sae winning. 
Our frugal meal was aye a feast. 

Our e'ening psalm a hymn of joy ; 
Sae calm an' peacefli' was our rest, 

Our bliss, our love, without alloy. 

I camia help but baud thee dear, 

My auld, storm-batter'd, hamely shieling; 
Thy sooty lum, an' kipples clear, 

I better love than gaudy ceiling. 



HOGG. 181 



Thy roof will fa,' thy rafters start, 
How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be ! 

Ah ! sae wjll soon ilk honest heart, 
That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee ! 

I thought to cower aneath thy wa', 

Till death should close my weary een ; 
Then leave thee for the narrow ha', 

Wi' lowly roof o' sward sae green. 
Farewell, my house an' burnie clear. 

My bourtree bush an' bowzy tree ! 
The wee while I maun sojourn here, 

I'll never find a hame like thee. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

Now lock my chamber-door, father, 

And say you left me sleeping ; 
But never tell my step-mother 

Of all this bitter weeping. 
No earthly sleep can ease my smart, 

Or even awhile reprieve it; 
For there's a pang at my young heart 

That never more can leave it ! 

O, let me lie, and weep my fill 

O'er wounds that heal can never ; 
And O, kmd Heaven ! were it thy will, 

To close these eyes for ever : 
For how can maid's affections dear 

Recall her love forsaken ? 
Or how can heart of maiden bear 

To know that heart forsaken ? 
16 



182 HOGG. 

O, why should vows so fondly made, 

Be broken ere the morrow — 
To one who loved as never maid 

Loved in this world of sorrow ! 
The look of scorn I cannot brave, 

Nor pity's eye more dreary ; 
A quiet sleep within the grave 

Is all for which I weary ! 

Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green, 

And banks of broom so yellow ! 
Too happy has this bosom been 

Within your arbours mellow. 
That happiness is fled for aye. 

And all is dark desponding — 
Save in the opening gates of day. 

And the dear home beyond them ! 



MARY GRAY. 

Some say that Mary Gray is dead, 

And that I in this world shall see her never ; 
Some say she is laid on her cold death-bed. 

The prey of the grave and of death for ever ! 
Ah, they know little of my dear maid. 

Or kindness of her spirit's Giver ; 
For every night she is by my side, — 

By the morning bower, or the moonlight river. 

My Mary was bonny when she was here. 
When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling 

Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear, 
And her form all virgin forms excelling. 



183 



But oh, if they saw my Mary now, 

With her looks of pathos and of feeling. 

They would see a cherub's radiant brow, 
To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling. 

The rose is the fairest of earthly flowers, 

It is all of beauty and of sweetness, — 
So ray dear maid in the heavenly bowers, 

Excels in beauty and in meekness ! 
She has kiss'd my cheek, she has kaim'd my hair, 

And made a breast of heaven my pillow ; 
And promised her God to take me there 

Before the leaf falls from the willow ! 

Farewell ! ye homes of living men — 

I have no relish for your pleasures ; 
In the human face I naething ken 

That with my spirit's yearning measures. 
I long for onward bliss to be, 

A day of joy — a brighter morrow ; 
And from this bondage to be free, — 

Farewell, this world of sin and sorrow ! 



THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness. 

Blithesome and cumberless. 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
O to abide in the desert with thee ! 



184 HOGG. 

Wild is thy lay, and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud, 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying ] 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green, 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing away ! 
Then, when the gloaming comes. 
Low in the heather blooms 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 



AN ARABIAN SONG. 

Meet me at even, my own true love, 
Meet me at even, my honey, my dove. 
Where the moonbeam revealing 
The cool fountain stealing. 
Away and away 
Through flow'rets so gay. 
Singing its silver roundelay. 



HOGG. 185 



Love is the fountain of life and bliss, 
Love is the valley of joyfulness ; 

A garden of roses, 
• Where rapture reposes, — 

A temple of light 

All heavenly bright ; 
O, virtuous love is the soul's delight ! 



16* 



186 H E M A N S. 

Felicia Dorothea Browx\e was born in Liverpool, on the 21st of 
September, 1793, Her father was Irish, and her mother German: 
— much of the romance which pervaded her character from earUest 
childhood may be traced to this mixed descent. Her first youth 
was passed among the mountains and valleys of North Wales ; 
scenes so fertile in sublimity and beauty produced their natui*al 
effects ; the earnest and continual study of Shakspeare led to the 
power of giving language to thought, — and before she had entered 
her thirteenth year, a printed collection of her Juvenile Poems was 
actually before the world. From this period to the close of her 
life she continued to send forth volume after volume, — each sur- 
passing the other in sweetness and power : it seemed as if the 
intellectual mine was inexhaustible, and perhaps her last produc- 
tion, of any length, will be considered her best. She married early : 
her marriage was not a happy one. Into the cause of her hus- 
band's estrangement, after she had borne him five sons, it is not 
our province to inquire ; but it is impossible not to feel that the 
circumstance contributed to produce that sadness, which, as an 
under-current, runs tlirough all her works : — 

"Have I not tried, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place ?" 

She resided several years at St. Asaph, then removed to Waver- 
tree, near Liverpool, and finally to Dublin, where she died on the 
16th of May, 1835. 

The character of Mrs. Hemans is in beautiful keeping with her 
poetry. Like the sweetest of all singing birds she was often 
heard but rarely seen. After her name became familiar to every 
reader in England, she shrunk from the public gaze, — and, we 
believe, never visited the Metropolis. We have, however, the 
testimony of more than one intimate and loving friend, that her 
unwillingness to enter general society arose from no unworthy 
disrelish for it. All her sympathies were in common with man- 
kind. She is said to have possessed considerable beauty in youth ; 
but thought and anxiety had done the work of years, — and it had 
passed long before its time. Her form was exceedingly delicate ; 
her countenance was gentle, yet full of expression and intelli- 



IIEMANS. 187 

gence ; and her long hair of silken auburn continued to the last 
remarkably profuse. Her manners were unassuming : she was 
reserved to strangers — but among her friends cheerful even to 
playfulness. 'We have heard one of the most beloved of all her 
familiar associates — a kindred spirit, also too early lost — speak of 
her with the most earnest and devoted affection. She described 
her conversation as singularly fascinating, — full of rich poetry; 
and Mr. Chorley, who loved her when living, and honoured her 
memory when dead, relates that some of her poems were printed 
almost exactly as they were spoken. 

The poetry of Mrs. Hemans will endure as long as the language 
in which it is written. It is essentially feminine. A tone of 
gentle, unforced, and persuasive goodness pervades it : it displays 
no fiery passion, and resorts to no vehement appeal ; — it touches 
upon nothing degraded or unnatural : it is often sad, but never 
exhibits " a discontented or repining spirit ;" and though it affords 
continual proofs of an eager longing for a " better land," and a 
mournful consciousness that her " soul's lofty gifts" were insufficient 

" To quench its panting thirst for happiness ;" 

it manifests no unwillingness to bear meekly, patiently, and trust- 
ingly, the thousand ills that flesh is heir to. Few Poets, living 
or dead, have written so much, and written so well. There is 
not, indeed, one among her productions that we might cast from 
us with indifference, or " willingly let die." Her diction is har- 
monious and free ; her themes, though infinitely varied, are all 
happily chosen, and treated with grace, originality, and judgment. 
Her poetry is full of images — but they are always natural and 
true : it is studded with ornaments — but they are never unbe- 
coming ; she selected and distributed them with singular felicity. 
Though rarely energetic, she is never languid, — her tenderness 
never wearies ; her piety — one of the chief sources of her power 
and her success — never degenerates into bitterness, but is at all 
times fervid and humanizing. The poetry of Mrs. Hemans, 
indeed, may be likened to a cathedral chaunt, — deep, solemn, and 
impressive ; entrancing rather than exciting — and depressing rather 
than elevating the spirits of those whose " spirits are attentive." 



HEMANS. 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 



A DIM and mighty minster of old Time ! 

A temple shadowy with remembrances 

Of the majestic past I — the very light 

Streams with a colouring of heroic days 

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 

A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 

To other years ; — and the rich fretted roof, 

And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 

Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 

The tenderest image of mortality — 

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 

Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves, — all these things 

Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly. 

On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love ! 

Honour be with the dead ! — the people kneel 

Under the helms of antique chivalry, 

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown. 

And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved 

Of warriors on their tombs. — The people kneel 

Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jewelled crowns 

On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set ; 

Wliere the high anthems of old victories 

Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts ! 

Memories of power and pride, which, long ago. 

Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 

In twilight depths away. Return, my soul ! 



HEMANS. 189 

The cross recalls thee. — Lo ! the blessed cross ! 
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 
Fixed in its meek and still supremacy ! 
And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 
All their full treasures of immortal Hope, 
Gathered before their God ! Hark ! how the flood 
Of the rich organ harmony bears up 
Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! — 
A forest-sounding music ! — every tone 
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings 
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent : 
And the old minster — forest-like itself — 
With its long avenues of pillared shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. — Join, join, my soul ! 
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness. 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts : — for every flower, sweet dew, 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 



Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills or forest-leaves, 
But, through its views of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 



190 HEMANS. 

I come with every star : 
Making thy streams, that on their noonday track 
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace ; I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee. 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ] — I have many tones : 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the bright day is done. 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn. 
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne, 

Make the tone heard at last. 



HE MANS. 192 

I bring them from the tomb ; 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love, 
They pass— though low as murmurs of a dove— 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ]— Hosts around me tread, 
Th' intensely bright, the beautiful, the dread- 
Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes, 
These are thy lightnings !— filled with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain. 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am th' Avenging One !— the armed, the strong, 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms !— the tempest birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse :— be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Night ! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, 
When a young mother, with her firstborn, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vowed 
Unto the temple service. By the hand 
She led him ; and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 



192 H E M A N S. 

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 
To bring before her God ! 

So passed they on, 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs. 
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest : 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose. 
As at a red flower's heart ; and where a fount 
Lay like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades, 
Making its banks green gems along the wild. 
There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave 
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips. 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. 

At last the fane was reached, — 
The earth's one sanctuary ; and rapture hushed 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hers, — and, half in fear. 
Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm 
Clung, even as ivy clings, the deep spring-tide 
Of nature tben swelled high ; and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song, — " Alas !" she cried, 



HEMANS. 193 

" Alas ! my boy ! thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me, 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart, — 

How shall I hence depart 1 

" How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing 
So late along the mountains at my side 1 

And I, in joyous pride, 
By every place of flowers my course delaying. 
Wove, even as pearls the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted ! 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away. 
While, through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still, 

Went like a singing villi 

" Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ! 
Nor will thy sleep's low, dovelike murmurs greet me. 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake. 

And watch for thy dear sake ! 

" And thou, wilt slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 
Wilt thou not vainly spread 
17 



194 H E M A N S. 

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, 
To fold my neck ; and lift up in thy fear, 
A cry which none shall hear ] 

" What have I said, my child 1 — will He not hear thee 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest 1 

Will He not guard thy rest, 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ] 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy ! 

" I give thee to thy God ! — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee. 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child ! 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go ! my soul may fail me. 
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks. 

Yearning for thy sweet looks ! 
But thou, my firstborn ! droop not, nor bewail me, — 
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shall dwell, 

The Rock of Strength, — farewell !" 



THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 

'TwAS a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower, 
And a Christian host, in its pride and power, 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice, — be still ! 



H E M A N S. 195 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam, 
And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream. 

And their plumes to the glad wind float ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice, — be still ! 

" I am here, with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, 
And an eagle, rushing to the sky. 

And a host, to its battle plain ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice, — be still ! 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight. 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight. 

And the trumpet in mine ear 1 
Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice, — be still ! 

" They are gone ! they have all pass'd by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! clarion pour thy blast I 
Sound ! for the captive's dream of hope is past !" 



196 HEMANS. 



THE TRUx'SIPET. 



The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon-pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire ! 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast ; 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas? 

A king to war went past ! 

The chief is arming in his hall. 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth ! 
The mother on her firstborn son 

Looks with a boding eye ; — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride ! 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead 1 



HEMAN3. 197 



THE RETURN TO POETRY. 



Once more the eternal melodies from far, 
Woo me like song-s of home : once more discerning- 
Throug-h fitful clouds the pure majestic star, 
Above the poet's world serenely burning-, — 
Thither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest. 
For those g-reen heig'hts of dewy stillness yearning. 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest. 
Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright land ! that no brief gladness, found 
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound. 
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true, high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain, 
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells ? 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, 

Bright things that gleam unrecked of and in vain. 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 

We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more I — what wealth untold, 

Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 

Won from ten thousand royal argosies. 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again ! 
17* 



19S H E M A N S. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play, 

Man yields them to decay ! 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar, — 

The battle thunders will not break their rest. 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 

Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, — 
But all is not thine own ! 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, — 
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown ! 

Yet must thou hear a voice, — Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 



CUNNINGHAM. 199 

Alx,an Cunningham was born at Blackwood, a place of much 
natural beauty, on Nithside, a few miles above Dumfries, on the 
7th of December, 1784. His father and grandfather were farmers; 
and one of his ancestors, an officer under the great Montrose, 
shared in his leader's good and evil fortune at Kilsythe and Philip- 
haugh. Some hopes held out by a relative of a situation in India, 
having, it appears, failed, Allan, at eleven years of age, was re- 
moved from school, to learn, under an elder brother, his business 
of a mason. This he did not dislike, and soon became a skilful 
workman; but he loved still better to pore over old books — listen to 
old songs and tales — and roam among his native glens and hills. 
A thirst for knowledge came early ; but a love of writing, as we 
have heard him say, came late. Some of his lyrics, however, 
found their way into a singular book, — Cromek's " Remains of 
Nithsdale and Galloway Songs," — and, passing for ancient, were 
received with an applause which at once startled and amused the 
writer. Dr. Percy boldly declared they were too good to be old ; 
and the author of " Marmion" has more than once said, that not 
even Burns himself has enriched Scottish song with more beautiful 
effusions. In 1810, Mr. Cunningham was allured from the Nith 
to the Thames. For some years he attached himself to the public 
press ; and in 1814, entered the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, the 
distinguished sculptor, as superintendant of his works, — a station 
which he continues to occupy. The first volume he ventured to 
publish was " Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, named 
after one of the heroes of his native district. It was well received 
by critics ; and Sir Walter Scott generously 

" Handed the rustic stranger up to fame," 
by a kind notice of his first attempt in the Preface to the " For- 
tunes of Nigel." Thenceforward Mr. Cunningham took his place 
among the Poets of Great Britain. He has since supplied us with 
but occasional proofs of his right to retain it; having devoted much 
of his leisure to the production of prose works of fiction ; and com- 
menced an undertaking of vast magnitude and importance, — the 
" Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge ;" — a task for 
whicli he is eminently qualified. 

Few modern writers are more universally respected and esteemed 
than Mr. Cunningham ; he numbers among his personal friends 



200 CUNNINGHAM. 

all the most eminent and accomplished of his contemporaries : in 
private life he has ever been irreproachable; — an early and a 
happy marriage probably preserved him from the errors and eccen- 
tricities which too generally mark the career of a youth of genius 
upon entering the perilous maze of the metropolis ; — where hun- 
dreds of as rare promise have sunk under the effect of dissipation 
and despondency ; and whose names are to be found only in the 
terrible records of " Calamities of Authors." Cunningham, in 
person, seems better fitted to deal with huge blocks of marble than 
with creations of fancy. His frame is of vigorous proportions ; 
his countenance highly expressive of mental as well as physical 
power; his eye keen and searching, but peculiarly gentle and 
winning. He combines industry with genius, and a rigid integrity 
with both. His biographies have been objected to on the ground 
that he has seen more to censure than to praise in the subjects of 
them : if, however, such contributions are valuable only as they 
are true, and in proportion to their distance from the imaginative 
and the misleading, they are the best, and will be the most endur- 
ing of his works. 

The poems of Cunningham, as we have intimated, are not 
numerous ; his last poetical production of any length, — the Maid 
of Elvar, — is, perhaps, his best : the scene of this little rustic epic, 
as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native vale ; and many of 
the delicious pictures it contains, with a true vein of poetry 
throughout, are drawn from rural life. It is, however, written in 
a measure ill calculated to become extensively popular. The 
poetical reputation of Allan Cunningham has been made, and is 
sustained, by his ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in 
feeling — chaste and elegant in style — graceful in expression, and 
natural in conception : they seem, indeed, the mere and unstudied 
outpourings of the heart; yet will bear the strictest and most 
critical inspection of those who consider elaborate finish to be at 
least the second requisite of the writers of song. His own 
country has supplied him with his principal themes ; and the 
peculiar dialect of Scotland — in which he frequently writes — his 
good taste prevents him from ever rendering harsh, or even inhar- 
monious, to Southern ears. 



CUNNINGHAM. 

THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. 

Child of the country ! free as air 

Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 

Born, like the lily, where the dew 

Lies odorous when the day is new ; 

Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee, 

Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 

Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune 

Which winds make 'mong- the woods of June : 

I sing of thee ; — 'tis sweet to sing 

Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 

Child of the town ! for thee I sigh ; 
A gilded roof's thy golden sky, 
A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
A narrow street thy boundless road. 
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp 
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp, — 
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : 
I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. 

Child of the country ! thy small feet 
Tread on strawberries red and sweet ; 
With thee I wander forth to see 
The flowers which most delight the bee ; 



202 CUNNINGHAM. 

The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
In April, while she nursed her young- ; 
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, 
Where brow^n bees build their balmy cells ; 
The greenwood stream, the shady pool. 
Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
A portion of the sheltering tree, — 
And other marvels which my verse 
Can find no language to rehearse. 

Child of the town ! for thee, alas ! 
Glad Nature spreads nor flow^ers nor grass ; 
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
Glad streams come singing as they run : 
A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree, 
A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare ; 
Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound 
Hawk'd clamorous all the city round ; 
No roses, twinborn on the stalk, 
Perfume thee in thy evening w^alk ; 
No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
The mingled din of cars and drums, 
And startling cries, such as are rife 
When wine and wassail waken strife. 

Child of the country ! on the lawn 
I see thee like the bounding fawn. 
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
The first time on the winds of spring ; 



CUNNINGHAM. 203 

Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
Now running-, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
Now groping trouts in lucid streams, 
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
Now hunting echo's empty sound, 
Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee 
To sit where birds can sit alone. 
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 

Child of the town and bustling street. 
What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 
And thou art cabin'd and confined^ 
At once from sun, and dew, and wind ; 
Or set thy tottering feet but on 
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone ; 
The coachman there careering reels 
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels j 
And Commerce pours each poring son 
In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run : 
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play, 
Men rush from darkness into day. 
The stream's too strong for thy small bark ; 
There nought can sail, save what is stark. 

Fly from the town, sweet child ! for health 
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
There is a lesson in each flower, 
A story in each stream and bower ; 



204 CUNNINGHAM. 

On every herb on which you tread 
Are written words which, rightly read, 
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, 
To hope, and holiness, and God. 



AWAKE, MY LOVE ! 

Awake, ray love ! ere morning's ray 
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray ; 
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view. 
Licks from her fleece the clover dew : 
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings. 
By hunters roused from secret springs : 
Or birds upon the boughs awake. 
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake. 

She comb'd her curling ringlets down. 
Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon ; 
And from her home, by Preston-burn, 
Came forth the rival light of morn. 
The lark's song dropp'd, — now loud, now hush,- 
The goldspink answer'd from the bush ; 
The plover, fed on heather crop, 
Call'd from the misty mountain top. 

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day 
Grows into gold from silvery gray, 
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake. 
Instinct with soul of song awake ; — 
To see the smoke, in many a wreath. 
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath, 
Where yon blithe mower hastes along 
With glittering scythe and rustic song. 



CUNNINGHAM. 205 

Yes, lovely one ! and dost thou mark 
The moral of yon carolling lark ? 
Tak'st .thou from Nature's counsellor tongue 
The warning- precept of her song 1 
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove 
Warms its wild note with nuptial love ; 
The bird, the bee, with various sound, 
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round. 



THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL. 

The laverock loves the dewy light, 

The bee the balmy foxglove fair ; 
The shepherd loves the glowing morn. 

When song and sunshine fill the air : 
But I love best the summer moon, 

With all her stars, pure streaming still ; 
For then, in light and love I meet 

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill. 

The violets lay their blossoms low. 

Beneath her white foot, on the plain ; 
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave, 

Of her superior presence fain. 
O might I clasp her to my heart. 

And of her ripe lips have my will ! 
For loath to woo, and long to win, 

Was she by green Gleneslan-mill. 

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew. 

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon ; 

Rills murmur'd music, and the stars 
Refused to set our heads aboon : 

18 



206 CUNNINGHAM. 

Ye might have heard our beating hearts, 
Our mixing breaths, — all was so still, 

Till morning's light shone on her locks, — 
Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill. 

Wert thou an idol all of gold, 

Had I the eye of worldish care, — 
I could not think thee half so sweet. 

Look on thee so, or love thee mair. 
Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye, 

This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,- 
Thine every wish of joy and love. 

My lass of green Gleneslan-mill ! 



THE POET S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

O ! MY love's like the steadfast sun. 

Or streams that deepen as they run : 

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 

Nor moments between sighs and fears ; 

Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 

Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, — 

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 

To sober joys and soften woes, 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued 
Ye seem, but of sedater mood : 
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 



CUNNINGHAM. 207 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond, and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; 

And time, and care, and birth-time woes 

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose : 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 

All that charms me of tale or song ; 

When words come down like dews unsought, 

With gleams of deep enthusiast thought ; 

And fancy in her heaven flies free, — 

They come, my love, they come from thee. 

O, when more thought we gave of old 

To silver than some give to gold, 

'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 

What things should deck our humble bower ! 

'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 

The golden fruit from fortune's tree ; 

And sweeter still, to choose and twine 

A garland for these locks of thine ; 

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 

While rivers flow, and woods are green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought, — 
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 
Shines like the rainbow through the shower : 
O then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; 



208 CUNNINGHAM. 

And proud resolve, and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak,- 
I think the wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that's not divine ! 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

A WET sheet and a flowing- sea, 

A wind that follows fast, — 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast : 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high : 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free, — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark ! the music, mariners. 

The wind is piping loud : 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free, — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



HUNT. 209 

Leigh Hunt is the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, 
and was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October the 19th, 1784. 
He, as well as Coleridge and Lamb, received his early education at 
Christ's Hospital, and chiefly under the same grammar-master ; 
and, like Lamb, he was prevented from going to the University (on 
the Christ's Hospital foundation, it is understood to be a prepara- 
tory step to holy orders) by an impediment in his speech — which, 
however, he had the good fortune to overcome. At school, as in 
after life, he was remarkable for exuberance of animal spirits, and 
for passionate attachment to his friends, — a feeling, also, which 
years have not diminished ; but he evinced little care for study, 
except when the exercises were in verse, when he would " give up" 
double tlie quantity demanded from him. His prose themes (he 
has so told us among other interesting facts) were generally so bad, 
that the master used to crumple them in his hand, and throw them 
to the boys for their amusement. Mr. Hunt has been an ardent 
though never an ungenerous, political partisan, and has suffered in 
almost every possible way for the advocacy of opinions, which, 
whether right or WTong, he has lived to see in a great measure tri- 
umph. He is not the only early struggler for " Reform," who has 
been left by Reformers in power, to be recompensed by his own 
feelings. 

The acquaintance of Mr. Hunt and Lord Byron began in prison, 
where Mr. Hunt was confined for the publication of an article in 
the "Examiner," which he then conducted. It was pronounced to 
be a libel on the Prince Regent ; — and originated in his sympathy 
with the sufferings of the people of Ireland. To the history of 
their after intercourse we have not space to refer. Time has pretty 
nearly satisfied the world that Mr. Hunt by no means overdrew the 
picture of the noble Bard. The leading feature in Mr. Hunt's cha- 
racter is a love of truth. This was unpalatable to Lord Byron, and, 
for a time also, to the public. Animal spirits, — a power of receiv- 
ing delight from the commonest every -day objects, as well as from 
remote ones, — and a sort of luxurious natural piety, (so to speak), 
are the prevailing influences of his writings. His friend, Hazlitt, 
used to say of him, in allusion to his spirits, and to his family, 
stock (which is from the West Indies), that he had " tropical blood 
in his veins." 

IS* 



210 HUNT. 

In person he is tall, and slightly formed ; his countenance is sin- 
gularly fine ; his eyes, like his complexion, are dark — but they have 
a gentle expression, akin to that of the gazelle. His look and his 
manner are both kindly and persuasive ; indeed we have rarely 
met any one who so completely realizes our notions of benevolence. 
His conversation is exquisitely pleasing, — "combining the vivacity 
of the schoolboy with the resources of the wit, and the taste of the 
scholar." We know little of his political writings ; they must have 
been fierce and bitter, — for they alarmed his opponents, and de- 
lighted and encouraged his friends : but unquestionably the man is 
to be seen in the tender, graceful, and affectionate effusions of the 
Poet. He is only at home where the heart presides. In the ear- 
lier part of his career, his opinions were assailed with the severest 
hostiUty. He has outlived the animosity to which he was subjected ; 
the misfortunes to which he has been exposed have been met with 
philosophy ; and his enemies have, like generous antagonists, aided 
in binding up the wounds they had inflicted. He has at length 
received justice from all, — save his political " friends." 

The poetry of Leigh Hunt has been, and ever will be, appre- 
ciated, by all who love nature, and sympathize with humanity. It 
is liable to the charge of occasional affectation ; and it is to be 
lamented that, at times, he defaces the beauty of a composition by 
some trifling puerilities. Mr. Hazlitt appears to have divined the 
cause of these defects. " From great sanguineness of temper, from 
great quickness and unsuspecting simplicity, he runs on to the 
public as he does at his own fireside, — and talks about himself, for- 
getting that he is not always among friends," This disposition, 
however, is also the main source of his success. His nature is 
essentially good ; and wliat he writes makes its way to the heart. 
The models he consults are the true old English Poets ; and the 
gayer spirits of Italy. He is a scholar, and " a special lover of 
books ;" yet we never find in him a touch of pedantry. His poetry 
is like his mind, — a sort of buoyant outbreak of joyousness ; and 
when a tone of sadness pervades it, is so gentle, confiding, and 
hoping, as to be far nearer allied to resignation than repining. Per- 
haps there is no Poet viho so completely pictures himself: it is a 
fine and natural and all-unselfish egotism ; and a glorious contrast 
to the gloomy and misanthropic moods which some Bards have 
laboured first to acquire, and then to portray. 



HUNT. 

SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 



We are blushing roses, 
Bending with our fulness, 

'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds 
Warming the green coolness. 

Whatsoe'er of beauty 

Yearns and yet reposes, 
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, 

Took a shape in roses. 

Hold one of us lightly, — 

See from what a slender 
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms. 

And roundness rich and tender : 

Know you not our only 
Rival flow'r, — the human ? 

Loveliest weight on lightest foot, 
Joy-abundant woman ? 



We are lilies fair, 

The flower of virgin light ; 
Nature held us forth, and said, 

" Lo ! my thoughts of white.' 



212 HUNT. 



Ever since ttien, angels 

Hold us in their hands ; 
You may see them where they take 

In pictures their sweet stands. 

Like the garden's angels 

Also do we seem ; 
And not the less for being crown'd 

With a golden dream. 

Could you see around us 

The enamour'd air, 
You w^ould see it pale with bliss 

To hold a thing so fair. 



We are slumbering poppies, 

Lords of Lethe downs. 
Some awake, and some asleep, 

Sleeping in our crowns. 
What perchance our dreams may know, 
Let our serious beauty show. 

Central depth of purple. 

Leaves more bright than rose, — 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 

Out of darkest grows 1 
Who, through what funereal pain. 
Souls to love and peace attain 1 

Visions aye are on us. 
Unto eyes of power ; 



213 



Pluto's alway-setting sun, 

And Proserpine's bower : 
There, like bees, tlie pale souls come 
For our drink, with drowsy hum. 

Taste, ye mortals, also ; 

Milky-hearted, we ; — 
Taste, but with a reverent care ; 

Active-patient be. 
Too much gladness brings to gloom 
Those who on the gods presume. 



We are the sweet flow^ers. 

Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;) 

Utterance, mute and bright. 

Of some unknown delight. 
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : 

All who see us love us, — 

We befit all places : 
Unto sorrow we give smiles, — and unto graces, graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 

All, and sweetly voiceles ■, 
Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear ; 

Not a whisper tells 

Where our small seed dwells, 
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear. 

We thread the earth in silence. 

In silence build our bowers, — 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet 
flowers. 



214 



The dear lumpish baby, 

Humming with the May-bee, 
Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass ; 

The honey-dropping moon, 

On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. 

Age, the wither'd dinger, 

On us mutely gazes. 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's 
daisies. 

See (and scorn all duller 

Taste) how heav'n loves colour; 
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green ; — 

What sweet thoughts she thinks 

Of violets and pinks. 
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen : 

See her whitest lilies 

Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers. 

Uselessness divinest. 

Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 

Travellers, weary eyed. 

Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce : 

Not a poor town windov/ 

Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting. 

Sagest yet the uses, 
Mix'd with our sweet juices, 
Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm ; 



HUNT. 215 

As fair fingers heal'd 

Knights from the olden field, 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. 

Ev'n the terror, poison, 

Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. 

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 

That thief, the honey maker. 
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! 

In his talking rooms 

How the feasting fumes, 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! 

The butterflies come aping 

Those fine thieves of our^s, 
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with 
flowers. 

See those tops, how beauteous I 

What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine ] 

Elfin court 'twould seem ; 

And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine. 

To expound such wonder 

Human speech avails not ; 
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not. 

Think of all these treasures 

Matchless works and pleasures, 
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ; 

Then think in what bright show'rs 

We thicken fields and bow'rs. 
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May : 



216 HUNT. 

Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted, 
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted. 



Fruits are born of flowers ; 
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring : 

The lusty bee knows well 

The news, and comes pell-mell, 
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming. 

Beneath the very burthen 

Of planet-pressing ocean. 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, — a thought for meek 
devotion. 

Tears of Phoebus, — missings 

Of Cytherea's kissings. 
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still ; 

Drooping grace unfurls 

Still Hyacinthus' curls. 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill : 

Thy red lip, Adonis, 

Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning. 

Oh ! true things are fables. 

Fit for sagest tables, 
And the flow'rs are true things, — yet no fables they ; 

Fables were not more 

Bright, nor loved of yore, — 
Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway : 

Grossest hand can test us ; 

Fools may prize us never : — 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, — marvels sweet for ever. 



HUNT. 217 

Who shall say, that flowers 

Dress not heaven's own bowers "? 
Who its love, without us, can fancy — or sweet floor 1 

Who shall even dare 

To say, we sprang- not there, — 
And came not down that Love might bring- one piece of heav'n 
the more '? 

Oh ! pray believe that angels 

From those blue dominions, 
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden 
pinions. 



TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little, patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off" the day's annoy. 
I sit me down, and think 

Of all thy winning- ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 

That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness, 

Thy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 

Of fancied faults afraid ; 
The little trembling- hand 

That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
These, these are things that may demEind 

Dread memories for years. 
19 



218 HUNT. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones 

I vi^ill not think of now ; 
And calmly 'midst my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow : 
But when thy fingers press, 

And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 

The tears are in their bed. 

Ah ! firstborn of thy mother, 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kmd playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father, too : 
My light where'er I go, 

My bird when prison bound, — 
My hand in hand companion,— no, 

My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say, " He has departed," — 

" His voice," — " his face," — " is gone ;' 
To feel impatient-hearted, 

Yet feel we must bear on : 
Ah, I could not endure 

To whisper of such wo, 
Unless I felt this sleep insure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping ! 

This silence too the while — 
Its very hush and creeping 

Seem whispering us a smile : — 
Something divine and dim 

Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of cherubim. 

Who say, " We've finished here." 



219 



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, 
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court ; 
The nobles filFd the benches round, the ladies by their side. 
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Loige, with one for 

whom he sigh'd : 
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show. 
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts 

below. 

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went 

with their paws ; 
With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd on one 

another, 
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous 

smother ; 
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the 

air: 
Said Francis, then, " Faith, gentlemen, we're better here 

than there." 

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always 

seem'd the same ; 
She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can 

he- 
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of 

me: 
King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is divine, — 
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will be 

mine. 



220 HUNT. 

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him 

and smiled ; 
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the 

place. 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's 

face. 
" By God !" cried Francis, " rightly done !" and he rose from 

where he sat ; 
" No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task like that !" 



THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT. 



You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced, 
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping WTetches of the sea. 
Gulping salt water everlastingly. 

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced, 

And mute though dwellers in the roaring waste ; 
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be, — 
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry, 

Legless, unloving, in famously chaste ; 

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights. 

What is't ye dol What life lead? eh, dull goggles? 

How do ye vary your vile days and nights 1 
How pass your Sundays ? Are ye still but joggles 

In ceaseless wash ? Still nought but gapes, and bites, 
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles ] 



HUNT. 221 



A FISH ANSWERS, 

Amazing monster ! that, for aught I know, 

With the first sight of thee didst make our race 
For ever stare ! O flat and shocking face. 

Grimly divided from the breast below ! 

Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go 

With a split body, and most ridiculous pace 
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, 

Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow ! 

breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air. 
How canst exist ! How bear thyself, thou dry 

And dreary sloth ] What particle canst share 
Of the only blessed life, the watery 1 

1 sometimes see of ye an actual pair 

Go by ! link'd fin by fin ! most odiously. 



THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A SPIRIT, AND AGAIN 
SPEAKS. 

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, 
O man ! and loathe, but with a sort of love ; 
For difference must itself by difference prove. 

And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music filL 

One of the spirits am I, that at their will 

Live in whatever has life — fish, eagle, dove — 
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, 

A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill, 
19* 



222 



Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves. 
Boundless in hope, lionour'd with pangs austere, 

Heaven-gazing ; and his angel-wings he craves : — 
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, 

A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves, 
Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. 

x^BOu Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou V The vision rais'd its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, " The names of those who love the Lord," 
" And is mine one f" said Abou. " Nay, not so ;" 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light. 
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



CLARE. 223 

John Clare was born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, Northamp. 
tonshire, in 1793. His father was a day labourer; and the Poet 
was acquainted, with Poverty long before he associated with the 
Muse. His manhood has been doomed to a lot as severe, and it 
would seem that want is his only prospect in old age ; for modern 
legislation has deprived him even of the " hope" on which he 
reckons, in one of his early poems, as a " last resource," 

" To claim the humble pittance once a- week. 
Which justice forces from disdainful pride." 

The story of his life presents, perhaps, one of the most striking 
and affecting examples that the history of unhappy genius has 
ever recorded ; illustrating in a sad and grievous manner the 
misery produced by the gift of mind in a humble station, — ^by 
great thoughts nourished in unfitting places. If ever the adage 
which tells us that a Poet is born a Poet, has been practically 
realized, it is in the case of the peasant of Northamptonshire. If 
ever the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties has been made 
clear beyond a doubt, it is in his case. It is our melancholy task 
to add — if ever the oft-denied assertion, that genius is but the heri- 
tage of wo, may be placed beyond controversy, it is in this instance 
also. By working " over-hours," he contrived to earn enough to 
pay for learning to read; the savings of eight weeks sufficed to 
obtain a month's " schooling ;" and his first object having been 
achieved, his next was to procure books. A shilling made him the 
master of Thomson's " Seasons ;" and he immediately began to 
compose poetry : but for some time afterwards, being unable to 
master funds to procure paper, he was compelled to entrust to his 
memory the preservation of his verses. He lived in the presence 
of Nature, and worshipped her with a genuine and natural passion : 
" the common air, the sun, the skies ;" the " old familiar faces" of 
the green fields, with their treasures of blade and wild flower, 
were the sources of his inspiration : and the people — their customs, 
their loves, their griefs, and their amusements — were the themes 
of his verse. Thus he w^ent on, making and writing poetry, for 
thirteen years, " without having received a single word of encou- 
ragement, and without the most distant prospect of reward." Per- 
haps his destiny would have been happier had he never encountered 
either. Accident, however, led to the publication of a volume of 



224 CLARE. 

his Poems : it passed through several editions, and brought money 
to tlie writer ; a few " noble" patrons doled out some guineas ; and 
we believe that something like an annuity was purchased for the 
Poet ; — several other volumes followed ; but the public no longer 
sympathized when they ceased to be astonished, — and latterly we 
imagine, not only has the writer received nothing for his produc- 
tions, but the sale of them has not sufficed to pay the expenses of 
their publication. 

Clare has, we understand, made an unsuccessful, indeed a 
ruinous attempt to improve his condition, by farming the ground 
he tilled ; and has for some years existed in a state of poverty, as 
utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his youth. He has 
a wife and a very large family ; and it is stated to us, that at times 
his mind gives way under the sickness of hope deferred. His 
appearance, when some years ago it was our lot to know him, was 
that of a simple rustic ; and his manners were remarkably gentle 
and unassuming. He was short and thick, yet not ungraceful, in 
person. His countenance was plain but agreeable ; he had a look 
and manner so dreamy, as to have appeared sullen — but for a pecu- 
liarly winning smile ; and his forehead was so broad and high as 
to have bordered on deformity. Further, we believe that in his 
unknown and uncherished youth, and in his after- days when some 
portion of fame and honour fell to his share, he maintained a fair 
character, and has subjected himself to no charge more unan- 
swerable than that of indiscretion in applying the very limited 
funds with which he was furnished after the world heard of his 
name, and was loud in applause of his genius. It is not yet too 
late for a hand to reach him ; a very envied celebrity may be ob- 
tained by some wealthy and good " Samaritan ;" — Strawberry Hill 
might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton. 

We do not place him too high when we rank John Clare at the 
head of the Poets who were, and continued to be, " uneducated," 
according to the stricter meaning of the term. The most accom- 
plished of British Poets will not complain at finding him introduced 
into their society : — setting aside all consideration of the peculiar 
circumstances under which he wrote, he is worthy to take his place 
among them. 



CLARE. 



There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, 

He lightens annual toil, while merry ale 

Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to praise 

The threadbare customs of his early days : 

How the high bowl was in the middle set 

At breakfast-time, when clippers yearly met, 

Fill'd full of furmety, where dainty swum 

The streaking sugar and the spotting plum. 

The maids could never to the table bring 

The bowl, without one rising from the ring 

To lend a hand ; who, if 'twere ta'en amiss, 

Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss. 

The large stone pitcher in its homely trim. 

And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim, 

Were there ; from which were drunk, with spirits high. 

Healths of the best the cellar could supply ; 

While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes. 

Songs that were pictures of the good old times. 

******** 
Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways. 
Keep up a shadow still of former days ; 
But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied 
The feast of furmety, is thrown aside ; 
And the old freedom that was living then, 
When masters made them merry with their men ; 



226 CLARE. 

When all their coats alike were russet brown, 
And his rude speech was vulgar as their own — 
All this is past, and soon will pass away, 
The time-torn remnant of the holiday. 



THE QUIET MIND. 

Though low my lot, my wish is won. 

My hopes are few and staid ; 
All I thought life would do is done. 

The last request is made. 
If I have foes, no foes I fear, 

To fate I live resigned ; 
I have a friend I value here, 

And that's a quiet mind. 

I wish not it was mine to wear 

Flush'd honour's sunny crown ; 
I wish not I were Fortune's heir,-— 

She frowns, and let her frown. 
I have no taste for pomp and strife. 

Which others love to find : 
I only wish the bliss of life— 

A poor and quiet mind. 

The trumpet's taunt in battle-field, 

The great man's pedigree, — 
What peace can all their honours yield 1 

And what are they to me ? 
Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife, 

Rave like a mighty wind ; 
What are they to the calm of life — 

A still and quiet mind 1 



CLAREs 227 

I mourn not that my lot is low, 

I wish no higher state ; 
I sigh not that Fate made me so, 

Nor tease her to be great. 
I am content — for well I see 

What all at last shall find,— 
That life's worst lot the best may be, 

If that's a quiet mind. 

I see the world pass heedless by, 

And pride above me tower ; 
It costs me not a single sigh 

For either w^ealth or power : 
They are but men, and I'm a man 

Of quite as great a kind, — 
Proud, too, that life gives all she can, 

A calm and quiet mind. 

I never mocked at beauty's shrine. 

To stain her lips with lies ; 
No knighthood's fame or luck was mine. 

To win love's richest prize : 
And yet I've found in russet weed. 

What all will wish to find. 
True love and comfort's prize indeed, 

A glad and quiet mind. 

And come what will of care or wo. 

As some must come to all ; 
I'll v/ish not that they were not so, 

Nor mourn that they befall : 
If tears for sorrows start at will, 

They're comforts in their kind ; 
And I am blest, if with me still 

Remains a quiet mind. 



228 CLARE. 

When friends depart, as part they must, 

And love's true joys decay, 
That leave us like the summer dust, 

Which whirlwinds puif away : 
While life's allotted time I brave, 

Though left the last behind ; 
A prop and friend I still shall have, 

If I've a quiet mind. 



MARY LEE. 

I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, 

Gather'd all for thee 1 
They are not flowers of pride. 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in heaven's smile. 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Can they fear thy frowns the while, 

Though oflered by me ] 

Here's the lily of the vale, 
That perfumed the morning gale, 

My fairy Mary Lee 1 
All so spotless and so pale, 

Like thine own purity. 
And, might I make it known, 
'Tis an emblem of my own 
Love — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Surely flowers can bear no blame, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 



CLARE. 229 

Here's the violet's modest blue, 

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, 

My -gentle Mary Lee, 
Would show whose heart is true, 

While it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot, 
The sun disdains them not ; 
I'm as lowly, too, indeed. 

My cliarming- Mary Lee ; 
So I've brought the flowers to plead, 

And win a smile from thee. 

Here's a wild rose just in bud ; 
Spring's beauty in its hood. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
'Tis the first in all the wood 

I could find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
Yet it hides its worth within. 
Like my love ; for I've no power. 

My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak, unless the flower 

Can make excuse for me. 

Though they deck no princely halls. 
In bouquets for glittering balls. 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Richer hues than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee ; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canopy, 
Than all wealth's golden skill, 

My charming Mary Lee ! 
20 



230 



Love would make them dearer still, 
That offers them to thee. 

My wreathed flowers are few, 
Yet no fairer drink the dew, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
They may seem as trifles too— 

Not I hope to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and wealth's disguise : 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more 1 

Surely not, Mary Lee ! 



NORTON. 231 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, the second daughter of Tho- 
mas, and the grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was 
born in London. Soon after the union of Mr. Sheridan with her 
mother (the daugliter of Colonel and Lady Elizabeth Callander), 
he became consumptive, and was induced to try the effects of a 
warmer climate upon his constitution. His wife accompanied him 
to Madeira, and subsequently to the Cape, where, after lingering 
two or three years, he died. His still young and beautiful widow 
returned to England, to superintend the education of her children, 
— a task to which she devoted herself with engrossing zeal, passing 
the best and generally the vainest years of a woman's life, apart 
from the gay world ; indifferent to the lures of society, and sacri. 
ficing even her personal comforts to advance their interests and 
form their minds. To this accomplished and excellent parent may 
be attributed much of Mrs. Norton's literary fame ; — it forms 
another link in that long chain of hereditary genius which has 
now been extended through a whole century. Her sister, the lady 
of the Hon. Captain Price Blackwood, is also a writer of conside- 
rable taste and power : her publications have been anonymous, and 
she is disinclined to seek that notoriety which the "pursuits of 
literature" obtain ; — but those who are acquainted with the produc- 
tions of her pen will readily acknowledge their surpassing merit. 
The sisters used, in their childish days, to write together; and, 
before either of them had attained the age of twelve years, they 
produced two little books of prints and verses, called, " the Dandies' 
Ball," and " the Travelled Dandies ;" both being imitations of a 
species of caricature then in vogue. But we believe that, at a 
much earlier period, Mrs. Norton had written poetry, which even 
now she would not be ashamed to see in print. Her disposition to 
"scribble," was, however, checked rather than encouraged by her 
mother; for a long time, pen, ink, and paper were denied to the 
young Poetess, and works of fiction carefully kept out of her way, 
with a view of compelling a resort to occupations of a more useful 
character. Her active and energetic mind, notwithstanding, soon 
accomplished its cherished purpose. At the age of seventeen, she 
wrote " the Sorrows of Rosalie ;" and, although it was not published 
until some time aflerwards, she had scarcely passed her girlhood 
before she had established for herself the distinction which had 
long been attached to her maiden name. 



232 NORTON. 

At the age of nineteen, Miss Sheridan was married to the Hon. 
George Chappie Norton, brother to the present Lord Grantley. He 
had proposed for her three years previously, but her mother had 
postponed the contract until the daughter was better qualified to 
fix her choice. These years had enabled her to make acquaintance 
with one whose early death prevented a union more consonant to 
her feelings. When Mr. Norton again sought her hand, he re- 
ceived it. It is unnecessary to add, that the marriage has not been 
a happy one : the world has heard the slanders to which she has 
been exposed ; and a verdict of acquittal from all who, for a mo- 
ment, listened to them, can scarcely have atoned for the cruel and 
baseless suspicions to which she had been subjected. 

Mrs. Norton has published two volumes of poetry, — " The Sor- 
rows of Rosalie," and " the Undying One." The former tells the 
story of a ruined cottage girl ; and the latter is founded on the 
superstition of the wandering Jew. The subject of the latter 
especially, was ill chosen ; a circumstance for which the authoress 
accounts, by stating that until she married she had read fewer 
works of fiction than most young persons. The St. Leon of Godwin, 
and the wild romance of Maturin, were unknown to her ; and she 
imagined she was inventing, when she was, in fact, only following 
in the path of her predecessors. 

Mrs. Norton is eminently beautiful : her form is peculiarly 
graceful and dignified ; and her features are exquisitely chiselled, 
— but hers is that intellectual beauty with which there is usually 
mingled a degree of haughtiness. She must occupy a high station 
among female authors, of which our age may boast a long and 
dazzling list. Her mind is of a high order ; but she is far from 
having attained the zenith of her fame. 

Her poetry is distinguished both by grace and energy. She is, 
perhaps, deficient in that inventive faculty in which some of her 
contemporaries have so greatly excelled ; but her productions are 
full of thought, — there is nothing of the aspect of poverty in any 
thing she has written ; on the contrary, her ideas seem too large 
and abundant for her verse : and she far more often crowds her 
materials than ekes out a description by words that might be dis- 
pensed with. 



NORTON. 



THE MOURNERS. 



Low she lies, who blest our eyes 

Through many a sunny day ; 
She may not smile, she will not rise, — 

The life hath past away ! 
Yet there is a world of light beyond, 

Where we neither die nor sleep ; 
She is there of whom our souls were fond, — 

Then wherefore do we weep ? 

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told 

In each glance of her glad bright eye ; 
And she lies pale, who was so bright. 

She scarce seemed made to die. 
Yet we know that her soul is happy now. 

Where the saints their calm watch keep ; 
That angels are crowning that fair young brow, 

Then wherefore do we weep ? 

Her laughing voice made all rejoice, 

Who caught the happy sound ; 
There was gladness in her very step, 

As it lightly touched the ground. 
The echoes of voice and step are gone, 

There is silence still and deep ; 
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,- 

Then wherefore do we weep 1 
20* 



234 NORTON. 

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, 

That lies like a shadow there, 
Were beautiful in the eyes of all, — 

And her glossy golden hair ! 
But though that lid may never wake 

From its dark and dreamless sleep ; 
She is gone where young hearts do not break, — 

Then wherefore do we weep "? 

That world of light with joy is bright. 

This is a world of wo : 
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight. 

Because we dwell below 1 
We will bury her under the mossy sod, 

And one long bright tress we'll keep ; 
We have only given her back to God, — 

Ah ! wherefore do we weep ] 



THE MOTHER S HEART. 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Nor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that lean'd to heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given: 

Obedient, — easy to be reconciled ; 

And meekly cheerful, — such wert thou, my child ! 



NORTON. 235 

Not willing to be left ; still by my side 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; 
Nor leaving. in thy turn : but pleased to glide 

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying, 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 

Oh ! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower. 

No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade, — 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love ; — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free. 

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth ! 

Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of joy ! 

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy. 

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, 
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye ! 

And thine was many an art to win and bless. 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile ; — the frequent soft caress ; — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found. 

But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound. 



236 NORTON. 

At length thou earnest ; thou, the last and least ; 

Nicknamed " the Emperor," by thy laughing brothers, 
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile ; — 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming; 
Fair shoulders — curling lip — and dauntless brow — 

Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming ; 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head. 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! Yet each succeeding claim, 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing ; 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, 

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow ; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die, — but, oh ! not now ! — 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. 
Spare me, great God ! lift up my drooping brow ; 
I am content to die. — but, oh ! not now !" 



NORTON. 237 

The spring' hath ripened into summer time ; 

The season's viewless boundary is past ; 
The glorious- sun hath reached his burning prime! 

Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ] 
" Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, 

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on ; 
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! 
Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow; 
I am content to die, — but, oh ! not now !" 



Summer is gone : and autumn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; 
The huntsman swifl the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo ! and winds his eager horn, 
" Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, 
To watch in silence while the evening rays 

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy 'gleam 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die, — but, oh ! not now !" 



The bleak wind whistles : snow-showers, far and near, 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear. 

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound : 
Yet still that prayer ascends. " Oh ! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, 

And the roof rings with voices light and loud : 
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die, — but, oh ! not now !" 



238 NORTON. 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring ! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread ; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing : — 

The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! 
" Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, 

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ; 
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ; 
Why didst thou linger ] — thou art happier now 1" 



ROGERS. 239 

Samuel Rogers was born in London, in tlie year 1762 : his father 
was a banker, — and the Poet, it is known, follows the same profita- 
ble calling. His first work, an " Ode to Superstition, and other 
Poems," was published in 1786. It met with considerable success ; 
and the appearance of the " Pleasures of Memory," in 1792, at 
once established a reputation, which has continued undiminished 
for nearly half a century. The "Pleasures of Memory" w^as fol- 
lowed by an " Epistle to a Friend ;" " the Voyage of Columbus ;" 
and " Jacqueline," which was originally published in the same 
volume with Lord Byron's " Lara." This was succeeded by 
" Human Life." His last, and we think his greatest, work, 
"Italy," was published in 1823. An edition of this volume, mag- 
nificently illustrated by a series of fine engravings, from the designs 
of Turner and Stothard, appeared in 1830 ; and, although it was at 
first considered that the author sought only to indulge his fancy by 
a large expenditure, for which he did not anticipate a return, we 
believe the extent of its sale has been so large, that the experiment 
has been exceedingly lucrative. The other " Poems" were pub- 
lished on a similar plan, in 1834. The two volumes are, without 
exception, the most exquisite examples of embellished books which 
our age, so fertile in such achievements, has yet produced. They 
afford proof that a judicious employment of capital cannot fail to 
ensure success. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that the Editor 
of the " Book of Gems" is indebted to Mr. Rogers for the sugges- 
tion of his work. 

Mr. Rogers is now not a young man. He has preserved his 
fame, notwithstanding that since he obtained it so many new and 
vigorous competitors have started for the same goal. Portraits of 
him, in abundance, have been published : they all give us the out- 
lines of a countenance strongly marked, — but not one of them 
supply us with the smallest notion of the shrewd and observant 
man, who, through nearly all his life in " populous city pent," has 
looked much about him, both at home and abroad ; has devoted all 
his leisure to the " proper study of mankind ;" and whose natural 
talent has been matured and polished by a long intercourse with 
all the finer spirits of the age. Few men have been more exten- 
sively known, or more universally courted; his conversation is 
remarkably brilliant, and his wit pure and original. 



240 



ROGERS. 



Mr. Rogers, it is said, writes with labour, and polishes with 
exceeding care. His poems are not, perhaps, remarkable for pas- 
sion or vigour; and he does not attempt invention. They are, 
however, surpassingly sweet, touching, and correct; a false rhyme, 
or an inharmonious sound, rarely or never occurs in any of his 
productions. He is the contemplative philosopher, rather than the 
man of action. It may be that his earnest desire to refine, has 
often lessened the strength of a thought; and that the melody of 
his verse has procured him more admirers than the energy of his 
conceptions; bat if the grand object of a writer is to give pleasure 
to a reader, he has undoubtedly attained it. The " Pleasures of 
Memory" has stood the test of time ; the grandsires of the present 
race loved it; and it remains one of the most popular productions 
of the press. His " Italy" will for ever hold place among the finest 
poems in the language. Its leading feature is simplicity. Nature 
itself is not more free from meretricious and inappropriate orna- 
ment. It is the record of a " keen observer" — learned and con- 
templative — passing through a country, every spot of which has 
been made familiar to tiie scholar by his books, telling all he sees, 
hears, and thinks, in language so unforced and natural, so gracefiil 
and impressive, that the people with their habits, and the palaces 
with their traditions, appear actually before the reader. In a brief 
preface to the work, he says, " wherever he came he could not but 
REiMEMBEH ;" — it is, howcvcr, in calling actual observation and 
experience to the aid of memory and reading, that his great excel- 
lence consists. His descriptions are marvellously accurate : with 
a single sentence he pictures a whole scene ; the worthy and the 
unworthy of past ages are brought, as it were, under our very eyes ; 
and the deep pathos with which the legendary tales are told, is 
singularly affecting. Who that has read the story of Ginevra can 
ever forget it ? How different from — because how much more 
natural than — the solemn dignity of Childe Harold, or the impas- 
sioned glow of Corinne, is the " Italy" of Rogers. It is, indeed, a 
romance without exaggeration ; a book of travels, without a tedious 
detail ; a history of classic ground, which may be acquired without 
struggling to obtain it through the schools ; and a poem, with all 
the best, most exciting, and most attractive attributes of poetry. 



ROGERS. 



AN ITALIAN SONG. 



Dear is my little native vale, 

The ringdove builds and murmurs there 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm the fairy-footed hours 

With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 

Or crowns of living laurel weave 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
The ballet danced in twilight glade. 

The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent greenwood shade ; 

These simple joys, that never fail, 

Shall bind me to my native vale. 



ON A TEAR. 

Oh ! that the Chemist's magic art 
Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 

Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
21 



242 ROGERS. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 

Then, trembling, left its coral cell, — 
The spring of Sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 

In thee the rays of virtue shine, — 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright. 

Than any gem that gilds the mine. 

Benign restorer of the soul ! 

Who ever fly'st to bring relief, — 
When first we feel the rude control 

Of love or pity, joy or grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In every clime — in every age ; 

Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream. 
In reason's philosophic page. 

That very law which moulds a tear. 
And bids it trickle from its source. 

That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
And guides the planets in their course. 



TO AN OLD OAK. 

Round thee, alas ! no shadows move, — 
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe 
Yet within thee, thyself a grove, 
Once did the eagle scream above, 
And the wolf howl beneath ! 



ROGERS. 243 

There once the steel-clad knight reclined, 

His sable plumage tempest-toss'd ; 
And, as the death-bell smote the wind, 
From towers long fled by human kind. 

His brow the hero cross'd ! 

Then culture came, and days serene, — 
And village-sports, and garlands gay : 
Full many a pathway cross'd the green, — 
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen 
To celebrate the May ! 

Father of many a forest deep, 

Whence many a navy thunder fraught ! 
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep. 
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, 
Opening new spheres of thought ! 

Wont in the night of woods to dwell. 

The holy Druid saw thee rise ; 
And, planting there the guardian-spell. 
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell 

Of human sacrifice ! 

Thy singed top and branches bare 

Now straggle in the evening sky ; 
And the wan moon wheels round to glare 
On the long corse that shivers there 

Of him who came to die ! 



244 L A N D N. 

L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon, was born in Hans Place, London. 
She is of the old Herefordshire family, of Tedstone-Delaraere. Her 
fatlier was, originally, intended for the navy ; and sailed his first 
voyage as a midshipman, with his relative, Admiral Bowyer : he 
afterwards became a partner with Mr. Adair, the well-known army 
agent, but died while his daughter was very young. Her uncle, 
the Rev. Dr. Landon, is Head of Worcester College, and Dean of 
Exeter. As we have heard her say, she cannot remember the time 
when composition — in some shape or other — was not a habit. She 
used in her earliest childhood to invent long stories, and repeat 
them to her brother ; these soon took a metrical form, and she fre- 
quently walked about the grounds of Trevor Park, and lay awake 
half the night, reciting her verses aloud. The realities of life 
began with her at a very early period. Her father's altered cir- 
cumstances induced her to direct her mind to publication; and 
some of her poems were transmitted to the Editor of" the Literary 
Gazette," — the first and the most constant of all her literary friends. 
He could scarcely believe thcj were written by the child who was 
introduced to him. " The Improvvisatrice" soon afterwards ap- 
peared, and obtained for her that reputation, to which every suc- 
ceeding year has largely contributed. 

In person Miss Landon is small, and delicately framed; her 
form is exquisitely moulded ; and her countenance is so full of 
expression, that, although her features are by no means regular, 
she must be considered handsome. Her conversation is brilliant, 
and abounds in wit. Like most persons of genius, her spirits are 
either too high or too low ; and those who have seen her only during 
her moments of joyousness, imagine that the sadness which too 
generally pervades her writings, is all unreal : — 

" Blame not her mirth who was sad yesterday, 
And may be sad to-morrow." 

One of her prose tales records the history of her childhood. It 
is but a gloomy one — and she treats it as the shadow of her after 
life. In a communication before us, she says, " I write poetry with 
.far more ease than I do prose, and with far greater rapidity. In 
prose, I often stop and hesitate for a word, — in poetry, never. 
Poetry always carries me out of myself; I forget every thing in 



L A N D N. 245 

the world but the subject which has interested my imagination. 
It is the most subtle and insinuating of pleasures, — but, like all 
pleasures, it is dearly bought. It is always succeeded by extreme 
depression of spirits, and an overpowering sense of bodily fatigue. 
Mine has been a successful career ; and I hope I am earnestly 
grateful for the encouragement I have received, and the friends I 
have made, — but my life has convinced me that a public career 
must be a painful one to a woman. The envy and the notoriety 
carry with them a bitterness which predominates over the praise." 
It has perhaps been her lot to encounter those best of friends — 
enemies — on her path through an eventful life ; but she has the 
affection, as well as the admiration, of many, and her own generous 
and ardent zeal in forwarding the interests of those she regards, 
has not always been met with indifference or ingratitude. 

Miss Landon has been nearly all her life a resident of London. 
Her poetry, therefore, dwells more upon human passions, desires, 
and enjoyments— the themes and persons that history has rendered 
sacred — the glorious chivalries of gone-by ages, and the ruins of 
nations, — than upon the gentler topics, objects, and characters 
which those who live in the country cherish, venerate, and love. 
It is to be lamented, that her intimacy with Nature has been so 
limited and constrained, and that the scope of her genius has been 
therefore narrowed. The sources of her fame have, however, been 
numerous and productive : and her poems have obtained a popu- 
larity scarcely second to that of any British writer. She not only 
obtained a reputation — she has sustained it : it is acknowledged 
and appreciated wherever the English language is understood. 
When she quitted the less substantial topics in which her early 
youth delighted, for themes more worthy of the Muse, she proved 
the strength of her mind, as well as the richness of her fancy ; and 
her latter productions are unquestionably her best. The extent of 
her labour is absolutely startling. A large proportion of her 
poems remain scattered through various periodical works ; — we 
believe, if collected, they would form a greater number of volumes 
than those already published ; and her writings in prose are records 
of her industry, no less than of her genius. 

21* 



LANDON. 

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 

Come back, come back together, 

All ye fancies of the past, 
Ye days of April weather, 

Ye shadows that are cast 
By the haunted hours before ! 
Come back, come back, my childhood ; 

Thou art summoned by a spell 
From the green leaves of the wild wood, 

From beside the charmed well ! 

For Red Riding Hood, the darling, — 
The flower of fairy lore. 

The fields were covered over 
With colours, as she went ; 
Daisy, buttercup, and clover, 
Below her footsteps bent. 

Summer shed its shining store. 
She was happy as she pressed them 

Beneath her little feet ; 
She pluck'd them and caress'd them— 
They were so very sweet, 

They had never seemed so sweet before, 
To Red Riding Hood, the darling, — 
The flower of fairy lore. 

How the heart of childhood dances 

Upon a sunny day ! 
It has its own romances, 

And a wide, wide world have they ! 



L A N D N. 247 



A world where phantasie is king, 
Made all of eager dreaming, — 

When once grown up and tall ; 
Now is the time for scheming, 
Then we shall do them all ! 

Do such pleasant fancies spring 
For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ? 

She seems like an ideal love. 

The poetry of childhood shown. 
And yet loved with a real love, 
As if she were our own ; 

A younger sister for the heart ; 
Like the woodland pheasant, 

Her hair is brown and bright ; 
And her smile is pleasant, 
With its rosy light. 

Never can the memory part 
With Red Riding Hood, the darling,- 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Did the painter, dreaming 

In a morning hour. 
Catch the fairy seeming 
Of this fairy flower 1 
Winning it with eager eyes. 
From the old enchanted stories. 

Lingering with a long delight. 
On the unforgotten glories 
Of the infant sight 1 

Giving us a sweet surprise 
In Red Riding Hood, the darling, — . 
The flower of fairy lore ? 



248 LAND ON. 

Too long in the meadow staying, 

Where the cowslip bends, 
With the buttercups delaying 
As with early friends. 
Did the little maiden stay. 
Sorrowful the tale for us. 

We, too, loiter mid life's flowers, 
A little while so glorious. 
So soon lost in darker hours. 

All love Imgering on their way. 
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,- 
The flower of fairy lore. 



THE FIRST GRAVE. 
IN THE NEW CHURCHYARD AT BROMPTON. 

A SINGLE grave ! — the only one 

In this unbroken ground, 
Where yet the garden leaf and flower 

Are lingering around. 
A single grave ! — my heart has felt 

How utterly alone 
In crowded halls, were breathed for me 

Not one familiar tone ; 

The shade where forest trees shut out 

All but the distant sky ; — 
I've felt the loneliness of night 

When the dark wmds pass'd by : 
My pulse has quicken'd with its awe, 

My lip has gasped for breath ; 
But what were they to such as this, — 

The solitude of death ! 



LANDON. 249 

A single grave ! — we half forget 

How sunder human ties, 
When' round the silent place of rest 

A gathered kindred lies. 
We stand beneath the haunted yew, 

And watch each quiet tomb ; 
And in the ancient churchyard feel 

Solemnity, not gloom : 

The place is purified with hope, 

The hope that is of prayer ; 
And human love, and heavenward thought, 

And pious faith, are there. 
The wild flowers spring amid the grass. 

And many a- stone appears, — 
Carved by affection's memory. 

Wet with affection's tears. 

* ■'■• 
The golden chord which binds us all 

Is loosed, not rent in twain ; 
And, love, and hope, and fear, unite 

To bring the past again. 
But THIS grave is so desolate. 

With no remembering stone ; 
No fellow-graves for sympathy, — • 

'Tis utterly alone. 

I do not know who sleeps beneath, 

His history or name, — 
Whether if, lonely in his life, 

He is in death the same : 
WTiether he died unloved, unmourned, 

The last leaf on the bough ; 
Or, if some desolated hearth 

Is weeping for him now. 



250 LAND ON. 

Perhaps this is too fanciful ; — 

Though single be his sod, 
Yet not the less it has around 

The presence of his God. 
It may be weakness of the heart, 

But yet its kindliest, best : 
Better if in our selfish world 

It could be less represt. 

Those gentler charities which draw 

Man closer with his kind ; 
Those sweet humanities which make 

The music which they find. 
How many a bitter word 'twould hush, 

How many a pang 'twould save. 
If life more precious held those ties 

Which sanctiiy the grave ! 



THE MOON. 

The moon is sailing o'er the sky. 
But lonely all, as if she pined 

For somewhat of companionship. 
And felt it were in vain she shined : 

Earth is her mirror, and the stars 
Are as the court around her throne ; 

She is a beauty and a queen, — 
But what is this ? she is alone. 

Is there not one — not one — to share 
Thy glorious royalty on high 1 

I cannot choose but pity thee, 
Thou lovely orphan of the sky. 



LAND ON. 251 

I'd rather be the meanest flower 
That grows, my mother earth, on thee, 

So thfere were others of my kin, 

To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. 

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death ; 

But with these better could I bear, 
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere, 

And be a solitary there. 



VENICE. 

Morn on the Adriatic, every wave 

Is turned to light, and mimics the blue sky, 

As if the ocean were another heaven ; 

Column, and tower, and fretted pinnacle 

Are white with sunshine ; and the few soft shades 

Do but relieve the eye. 

The morning time — 
The summer time, how beautiful they are ! 
A buoyant spirit fills the natural world, 
And sheds its influence on humanity ; 
Man draws his breath more lightly, and forgets 
The weight of cares that made the night seem long. 
How beautiful the summer, and the morn. 
When opening over forest and green field, 
Waking the singing birds, till every leaf 
Vibrates with music ; and the flowers unfold, 
Heavy and fragrant with the dewy sleep. 
But here they only call to life and light 
The far wide waste of waters, and the walls 
Of a proud city, — yet how beautifiil ! 
Not the calm beauty of a woodland world. 



252 LAND ON. 

Fraught with sweet idleness and minstrel-dreams : 

But heauty which awakes the intellect 

More than the feelings ; that of power and mind — 

Man's power, man's mind — for never city raised 

A prouder or a fairer brow than Venice, 

The daughter and the mistress of the sea. 

Far spread the ocean, — but it spread to bear 
Her galleys o'er its depths, for war or wealth ; 
And raised upon foundations, which have robbed 
The waters of its birthright, stand her halls. 

Now enter in her palaces : a world 
Has paid its tribute to their luxury ; 
The harvest of the rose, on Syria's plains. 
Is reaped for Venice ; from the Indian vales 
The sandal-wood is brought to burn in Venice ; 
The ambergris that floats on eastern seas. 
And spice, and cinnamon, and pearls that lie 
Deep in the gulf of Ormus, are for Venice ; 
The Persian loom doth spread her silken floors ; 
And the clear gems from far Golconda's mines 
Burn on the swanlike necks of her proud daughters — 
For the fair wife of a Venetian noble 
Doth often bear upon her ivory arm 
The ransom of a kingdom. By the sword, 
Drawn by the free and fearless ; by the sail, 
That sweeps the sea for riches, which are power. 
The state of Venice is upheld : she is 
A Christian Tyre, — save that her sea-girt gates 
Do fear no enemy, and dread no fall. 

Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad ! 
And yet we are not joyful ; there is here 
A stronger influence than sweet Nature's joy : 
The scene hath its own sorrow, and the heart 
Ponders the lessons of mortality 
Too gravely to be warmed by that delight 



LAND ON. 253 

Born of the sun, and air, and morning prime. 

For we forget the present as we stand 

So much heneath the shadow of the past : 

And here the past is mighty. Memory 

Lies heavy on the atmosphere around ; 

There is the sea, — but where now are the ships 

That bore the will of Venice round the world ] 

Where are the sails that brought home victory 

And wealth from other nations ? No glad prows 

Break up the waters into sparkling foam ; 

I only see some sluggish fishing-boats. 

There are the palaces, — their marble fronts 

Are gray and worn ; and the rich furniture 

Is stripped from the bare walls ; or else the moth 

Feeds on the velvet hangings. There they hang, — 

The many pictures of the beautiful. 

The brave, the noble, who were once Venetians : 

But hourly doth the damp destroy their colours, 

And Titian's hues are faded as the face 

From which he painted. With a downcast brow, 

Drawing his dark robe round him, which no more 

Hides the rich silk or gems, walks the Venetian ; 

Proud, with a melancholy pride which dwells 

Only upon the glories of the dead ; 

And humble, with a bitter consciousness 

Of present degradation. 

These are the things that tame the pride of man ; 
The spectral writings on the wall of time, — 
Warnings from the Invisible, to show 
Man's destiny is not in his own hands. 
Cities and nations, each are in their turn 
The mighty sacrifice which Time demands, 
And offers up at the eternal throne — , 
Signs of man's weakness, and man's vanity. 
22 



254 C R L Y. 

George Croly was born in Ireland, towards the close of the last 
century. Being intended for the Church, he entered the Irish 
University, Trinity College, Dublin, at an early age, — obtained a 
scholarship, and successively proceeded to the degrees of A. B. 
and A. M. He was ordained by O'Beirne, Bishop of Meath — the 
friend of Edmund Burke — and put in charge of a parish in his 
diocese. His residence was favourable to the study of his profes- 
sion : the village church stood on the borders of an immense lake, 
imbedded in mountains ; and the solitude amid which the Poet 
thought and wrote, strengthened his mind, and prepared it to con- 
test for eminence in the great world he was to enter. After 
remaining some years in this retirement, he visited London ; — it 
was at the animating period when England first embarked in the 
Spanish war. Sharing the general impulse of the time, and in- 
tending to see, in person, the land whose sudden achievements 
restored almost her old days of romance, he applied himself vigo- 
rously to acquire the Spanish language. On the first announce- 
ment that the Elbe was open, he went to Germany. No moment 
could have been more interesting to a British observer. The Con- 
tinent had been a sealed book since the short peace of Amiens. 
During the interval the most singular changes had been wrought 
in every continental state. The three great capitals of the Conti- 
nent had been entered by the French armies. The population had 
been alternately broken down by military severity, and roused to 
resistance by foreign extortion. Men and manners had changed : 
half a generation had gone down into the grave ; — all was now 
strange, and impressed with the character of the great convulsion. 
Dr. Croly has given some account of this aspect of things, in a 
lately published volume, entitled, the " Year of Liberation," — 
formed from his recollections of the time. He resided chiefly in 
Hamburgh, — the return of the French troops preventing all inter- 
course with the interior of Germany. Napoleon had flooded the 
Continent again with his conscripts, and all was confusion. In 
1815, Paris was opened to the world. The lost army of France 
capitulated behind the Loire, and the conqueror of Waterloo re- 
placed the old family of the French kings on the throne. The 
curiosity of the English led them to Paris in multitudes ; and Dr. 
Croly remained there for some time. But his chief intei-cst seems 



CROLY. 255 

to have been excited by the localities and monuments of the Revo- 
lution ; while the generality of the visiters occupied themselves 
with the later memorials of the empire which abound in Paris, and 
which form some of the most striking ornaments of that capital, 
he was engrossed by the scenes which had been distinguished in 
the revolutionary period and reign of terror, — the Temple, the 
Carmes, the site of the Bastille, the prison of the Abbaye, «fec. 
With those impressions on his mind, on his return to England, he 
produced his first poem, entitled, " Paris in 1815." It was suc- 
cessful, and was followed at intervals by other poems, — " The 
Angel of the World," a tragedy on the subject of the Catilinarian 
Conspiracy, — " Gems from the Antique," &c. 

Dr. Croly is, thus, a writer of tragedy and comedy ; — an almost 
universal Poet ; a painter of rich and glowing romance ; a daring 
interpreter of the darkest mystery of the Scriptures, — the Apoca- 
lypse of St. John ; a skilful and searching critic ; and an eloquent 
and accomplished preacher. His poems have not obtained a popu- 
larity adequate to their merit — perhaps because he manifests but 
little sympathy with his kind. He is grand and gorgeous, but 
rarely tender and affectionate ; he builds a lofty and magnificent 
temple, but it is too cold and stately to be a home for the heart. 
In several of his minor productions, he is exceedingly vigorous and 
animated, — and from his " Gems" may be selected some of the 
boldest and most striking compositions in the language. 

A few years since he published his first work in prose, " Sala- 
thiel, a story of the Past, the Present, and the Future," founded on 
the legend of the "Wandering Jew." 

But, as we have intimated, in subjects of this order, which are, 
indeed, analogous to his profession, Dr. Croly had not neglected the 
more direct studies of theology. He has produced several works 
on the chief matters of divinity ; among the rest, a New Interpre- 
tation of the Apocalypse of St. John, — which has arrived at a third 
edition. In the year 1831, Lord Brougham, on taking the seals, 
gave him one of the livings in his gift as Chancellor. In 1835. 
Lord Lyndhurst, then Chancellor, gave him the rectory of St. Ste- 
phen's, Walbrook, which involved the surrender of his former living. 
A few years previously he had received from his own University, 
what he probably felt as scarcely a less gratifying mark of recol- 
lection, the unsolicited degree of LL. D. 



CROLY. 

THE TUILERIES. FROM "PARIS, IN 1815." 

Large, lofty, gorgeous, all that meets the eye, 

Strong- with the stamp of ancient majesty ; 

The impress which so undefined, yet clear, 

Tells that the former mighty have been there. 

All looking hoary pomp ; the walls rich scroll'd, 

The roof high flourish'd, arras stiff with gold, 

In many a burning hue and broad festoon 

Wreathing those casements, blazon'd now with noon; 

The marble tablets on their silver claws, 

Loaded with nymph, and grace, and pix, and vase. 

Beside the mirror foot, the Indian screen 

Dazzling the eye with dragons red and green ; 

The mighty mirror, brightning, doubling all, 

In its deep crystal lit an endless hall. 

The rout a moment paused, gave glance and smile, 
Then scatter'd on, to wonder through the pile ; 
Yet there was beauty in the very light 
That round the chamber roll'd its gush of white ; 
And well the wanderer there might feel his gaze 
Tranced by the bright creations of the blaze. 



C R L Y. 257 



PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 

This was the ruler of the land, 

When Athens was the land of fame ; 

This was the light that led the band, 
When each was like a living flame : 

The centre of earth's noblest ring, 

Of more than men, the more than king ! 

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear. 
His sovereignty was held or won ; 

Fear'd — but alone as freemen fear ; 
Loved — but as freemen love alone ! 

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind. 

By Nature's first great title — mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue ; 

Then eloquence first flash'd below ! 
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung, 

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow I 
And his the sole, the sacred hand. 
That shook her aegis o'er the land ! 

And thron'd immortal, by his side, 
A woman sits, with eye sublime, — 

AsPASiA, all his spirit's bride ; 

But if their solemn love were crime, - 

Pity the beauty and the sage, — 

Their crime was in their darken'd age. 

He perish'd — but his wreath was won — 
He perish'd on his height of fame I 

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun ; 
Yet still she conquer'd in his name. 



258' C R L Y. 

Fill'd with his soul, she could not die — 
Her conquest was posterity ! 



LINES W^RITTEN AT SPITHEAD. 

Hark to the knell ! 
It comes on the swell 

Of the stormy ocean wave ; 
'Tis no earthly sound, 
But a toll profound 

From the mariner's deep sea grave. 

When the billows dash. 
And the signals flash, 

And the thunder is on the gale ; 
And the ocean is white 
In its own wild light, 

Deadly, and dismal, and pale. 

When the lightning's blaze 
Smites the seaman's gaze, 

And the sea rolls in fire and in foam ; 
And the surges' roar 
Shakes the rocky shore. 

We hear the sea-knell come. 

There 'neath the billow, 
The sand their pillow, 

Ten thousand men lie low ; 
And still their dirge 
Is sung by the surge. 

When the stormy night-winds blow. 



CROLY. 

Sleep, warriors ! sleep 
On your pillow deep 

Iii'peace ! for no mortal care, 
No art can deceive, — 
No anguish can heave 

The heart that once slumbers there. 



LEONIDAS. 

Shout for the mighty men 

Who died along this shore, — 

Who died within this mountain glen ! 

For never nobler chieftain's head 

Was laid on valour's crimson bed, 
Nor ever prouder gore 

Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 

Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! 

Shout for the mighty men, 

Who on the Persian tents. 
Like lions from their midnight den, 
Bounding on the slumbering deer, 
Rush'd — a storm of sword and spear — 

Like the roused elements. 
Let loose from an immortal hand, 
To chasten or to crush a land ! 

But there are none to hear ; 

Greece is a hopeless slave. 
Leonid AS ! no hand is near 
To lift thy fiery falchion now : 
No warrior makes the warrior's vow 

Upon thy sca-wash'd grave. 
The voice that should be raised by men, 
Must now be given by wave and glen. 



259 



260 C R L Y. 

And it is given ! the surge — 

The tree — the rock — the sand- 
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
In sounds that speak but to the free, 
The memory of thine and thee ! 

The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell, 
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell ! 

And is thy grandeur done 1 

Mother of men like these ! 
Has not thy outcry gone 
Where Justice has an ear to hear 1 
Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ; 

Till in thy crimson'd seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar, 
Greece shall be a new-born star ! 



THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 

It w^as the wild midnight, 
A storm was on the sky ; 

The lightning gave its light, 
And the thunder echoed by. 

The torrent swept the glen, 
The ocean lash'd the shore ; 

Then rose the Spartan men. 
To make their bed in gore 1 

Swift from the deluged ground 
Three hundred took the shield 

Then, silent, gather'd round 
The leader of the field. 



C R L Y. , 261 



He spoke no warrior-word, — 
He bade no trumpet blow ; 

But the signal thunder roar'd, 
And they rush'd upon the foe. 

The fiery element 

Show'd, with one mighty gleam, 
Rampart, and flag, and tent, 

Like the spectres of a dream. 

All up the mountain side, 
All down the woody vale, 

All by the rolling tide 

Waved the Persian banners pale. 

And King Leonidas, 

Among the slumbering band, 
Sprang foremost from the pass, 

Like the lightning's living brand. 

Then double darkness fell, 

And the forest ceased its moan ; 

But there came a clash of steel, 
And a distant, dying groan. 

Anon, a trumpet blew. 

And a fiery sheet burst high, 

That o'er the midnight threw 
A blood- red canopy. 

A host glared on the hill, — 
A host glared by the bay ; 

But the Greeks rush'd onwards still, 
Like leopards in their play. 



262 C R L Y. 

The air was all a yell, 
And the earth was all a flame, 

Where the Spartan's bloody steel 
On the silken turbans came. 

And still the Greek rush'd on 
Beneath the fiery fold, 

Till, like a rising sun, 

Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 

They found a royal feast, 

His midnight banquet, there ! 

And the treasures of the east 
Lay beneath the Doric spear. 

Then sat to the repast 
The bravest of the brave ! 

That feast must be their last, — 
That spot must be their grave. 

They pledged old Sparta's name 
In cups of Syrian wine. 

And the warrior's deathless fame 
Was sung in strains divine. 

They took the rose-wreath'd lyres 
From eunuch and from slave ; 

And taught the languid wires 
The sounds that freedom gave. 

But now the morning star 

Crown'd (Eta's twilight brow : 

And the Persian horn of war 
From the hills began to blow. 



C R L Y. 263 



up rose the glorious rank, 

To Greece one cup pour'd high, — 
Then, hand in hand, they drank 

" To Immortality !" 

Fear on King- Xerxes fell. 

When, like spirits from the tomb, 
With shout and trumpet-knell, 

He saw the warriors come. 

But down swept all his power. 
With chariot and with charge ; 

Down pour'd the arrowy shower. 
Till sank the Dorian's targe. 

They march'd within the tent. 
With all their strength unstrung ; 

To Greece one look they sent, 
Then on high their torches flung. 

To heaven the blaze uprolPd, 

Like a mighty altar-fire ; 
And the Persians' gems and gold 

Were the Grecians' funeral pyre. 

Their king sat on the throne, 
His captains by his side, — 

While the flame rush'd roaring on. 
And their paean loud replied ! 

Thus fought the Greek of old,— 

Thus will he fight again ! 
Shall not the selfsame mould 

-Bring forth the selfsame men 1 



264 WOLFE. 

Charles Wolfe was born in Dublin, on the 14th of December, 
1791. He received his early education at a school in Winchester : 
his classical attainments distinguished him when very young ; and 
on entering, in 1809, the University of his native city, he had 
already given proofs of the genius which, although perceived and 
appreciated by all who knew him, was unhappily known to the 
world only when death had removed him alike from censure and 
praise. In College he soon became remarkable ; obtained a scho- 
larship ; gained several prizes, and attracted general attention as 
one of the most promising young men of the time. His mind, 
however, appears to have been reflective rather than energetic ; 
and when the chief excitements to distinction ceased to influence 
him, he preferred the easy life of a country curate to the continued 
struggle for academic fame. It is said, however, that his ambitious 
hopes were chilled by the mifavourable result of a deep attachment : 
one of his friends writes, that *' it pressed upon both mind and 
body ; until this unfortunate epoch of his life, he had been in the 
enjoyment of robust health, — but the sickness at his heart soon 
communicated itself to his whole frame. Even his general deport- 
ment was quite altered." He settled in an obscure corner of 
Tyrone County, and was afterwards removed to the curacy of 
Castle Caulfield, in the diocese of Armagh : — his duties were dis- 
charged with unremitting zeal ; and he succeeded in obtaining the 
affection as well as the respect of his parishioners. In the spring 
of 1821, symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he 
was at length induced by his friends to remove from his parish, 
and commence a search after health in more genial climates. 
For a short time he resided in Devonshire, and afterwards at Bour- 
deaux. His restoration to health w^as but temporary. " The fatal 
disease," writes his amiable and excellent biographer, Mr. Russell, 
" which had been long apprehended, proved to have taken full hold 
of his constitution. The bounding step which expressed a constant 
buoyancy of mind, became slow and feeble : his robust and upright 
figure began to droop; his marked and prominent features acquired 
a sharpness of form ; and his complexion, naturally fair, assumed 
the pallid cast of wasting disease." He died at the Cove of Cork, 
on the 2 1st of February, 1823. 

While at College, Mr. Wolfe wrote the Poem, which has, per- 



AV L F E. 265 

haps, obtained as wide a popularity as any single production in the 
English language. It was not, however, until after his death tliat 
the world became conscious of his value, and of the loss it had 
sustained. The lines on the burial of Sir John Moore, were 
printed in Captain Medwin's " Conversations of Lord Byron," by 
whom they were highly praised, and to whom the author of the 
work attributed them. Soon after the publication of the book, 
however, they were claimed for Mr. Wolfe by several of his friends, 
and ample proof was adduced of his right to the celebrity they 
were calculated to confer. Upon how slight chances does immor- 
tality depend I The Poem, small as it is, has been the means of 
registering the writer's name in the records of fame ; and though 
it cannot be doubted that the circumstances connected with the 
publicity it obtained, and the sympathy consequently excited by the 
early death of one who had already manifested so much genius, 
has greatly increased the- admiration produced by it — and will 
prevent the critic from exercising a sound judgment in considering 
it, its exceeding beauty will not be denied. Although Mr. Wolfe 
produced but few other Poems, he afforded sufficient proof that if 
circumstances had directed his mind to the cultivation of poetry, 
he would have greatly surpassed this composition, which he so little 
imagined would become famous. He appears to have been quite 
indifferent to the fate of his " Lines :" they had been circulated 
full of errors, from one newspaper to another ; and probably the 
author had himself forgotten their production. Fortunately for 
his posthumous fame — tliat fame which many so ardently covet — 
they had been repeated by him to a few of his acquaintances, one 
of whom was in his society when part of them was written, of 
they would now be wandering without an owner ; and the name or 
Charles Wolfe as little known to the world, as that of any of the 
" gems" which 

" The dark, unfathomed depths of ocean bear." 
The Poem has been compared, we think unwisely, with Camp- 
bell's " Hohenlinden," to which it is certainly inferior. If Mr. 
Wolfe had anticipated the sensation his " Lines" created, he would, 
no doubt, have improved his composition^ and have refined the 
structure of his verse, without impairing its vigour. 
23 



WOLFE. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN" MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, — 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his Jiead, 

And we far away on the billow ! 



267 



Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly Jfiring. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory : 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But left him alone with his glory. 



SONG. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be ! 
It never through my mind had past. 

The time would e'er be o'er, — 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more ! 

And still upon that face I look. 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may. 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 



268 



If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene, — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave, — 

And I am now alone ! 

I do not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking too of thee : 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, — 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 



LAND OR. 269 

Walter Savage Landor was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire 
— the seat of his family, an ancient and honourable one — on the 
30th of January,. 1775. He was educated at Rugby. When he 
had reached nearly the head of the school, he was too young for 
the University, and was placed under the tuition of I\Ir. Langley, 
at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire ; but a year afterwards, was entered 
of Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned Benvvell was his 
private tutor. During his residence there, he is said to have mani- 
fested that independence of spirit, and restlessness of control for 
which he has been since remarkable ; and was rusticated for 
shooting across the quadrangle at prayer-time. In 1808, on the 
first insurrection of Spain, he joined the Viceroy of Gallicia, Blake. 
The Madrid Gazette of that year mentions a gift from him of 
20,000 reals. On the extinction of the Constitution, he returned 
to Don. P. Cevallos the tokens of royal approbation he had received 
from the government, and expressed his sentiments on the subject 
in no very measured terms. In 1811, Mr. Landor married Julia, 
the daughter of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and repre- 
sentative of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first gentleman of the bed- 
chamber to Charles the Eighth. In the autumn of 1815, he retired 
to Italy : for some years he occupied the Palazzo Medici, in Flo- 
rence, and then purchased the beautiful villa of Count Gherardesca, 
at Fiesole, with its gardens and farms, half a mile from the ancient 
villa of Lorenzo de' Medici. His visits to England for the last 
twenty years have been few and brief; but it is stated, v^-e trust 
upon good authority, that " with all her faults," he loves his coun- 
try too well to contemplate a final separation ; and that it is pro- 
bable the residue of his days will be spent among us. 

Mr. Landor has afforded ample proof of a disposition exceedingly 
restless and excitable. He has more of the Jiert6 of genius — less 
often witnessed than read of — than any living writer we could 
name. His countenance does not, at first, convey this impression ; 
but it is impossible not to perceive that his passions are strong, his 
sensibilities keen and active, and his pride indomitable. His face is 
remarkably fine and intellectual ; and, as with many who profess 
extreme liberal opinions, his look and bearing are those of a man 
who can have no sympathies in common with the mean and vulgar. 
23* 



270 I- A N D R. 

His works have not been popular ; yet we might select at random, 
from any one of them, a dozen pages, out of wliich a more skilful, 
a more cunning, or a more humble man might have made a repu- 
tation. Th are full to overflowing ; one cannot but wonder at 
the vast mine of thought, reason, and reflection, of which they 
exhibit proofs ; — at the same time, it will be lamented that some 
peculiar notions have led him to neglect the means by which his 
strong natural powers might have been made universally beneficial. 
It is obvious that he labours to attain a dislike of, and a contempt 
for, human kind ; and that his kindly and benevolent nature will 
not permit him so to do : in all his writings there is a singular and 
striking mixture of the generous with the disdainful — tenderness 
with wrath, strong affections, with antipathies quite as strong. His 
" Imaginary Conversations" will endure with the language in 
whicli they are written ; and if they do not find readers in the 
multitude, they will be always appreciated by tliose whose judg- 
ment is valuable, and whose praise is reward. His latest work in 
prose, " Pericles and Aspasia," might justify even a warmer eulogy. 

Mr. Landor has published but one volume of Poetry, — " Geber, 
Count Julian, and other Poems ;" but several of his most powerful 
and beautiful compositions will be found scattered through his prose 
works. Our readers will find in our selections ample to sustain a 
high reputation. They are polished to a degree ; yet full of fine 
thoughts and rich fancies. The evidences of his genius for dra- 
matic poetry are abundant, and received fiill justice, a year ago, in 
the New Monthly Magazine. To a glowing imagination and a 
mind remarkably vigorous, he adds the advantages of extensive 
learning, and a matured knowledge of Imman kind. His indiffer- 
ence to public opinion — arising, no doubt, from a taste highly cul- 
tivated, and a refined appreciation of excellence — has, unhappily, 
induced him to withhold too much of the intellectual wealth he 
possesses, and even to mix with " baser matter" that which he has 
given us. If he had been born a poor man, he would have been, 
at least in the estimation of the world, a much greater man than 
he is. If, however, the fame of Walter Savage Landor be not 
widely spread, it cannot fail to be enduring. Among the rarest 
and most excellent of British Poets he will always be classed. 



LANDOR. 



Clifton, in vain thy varied scenes invite — 
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy heig-ht ; 
The sheep, that, starting- from the tufted thyme, 
Untune the distant churches' mellow chime ; 
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps, 
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps. 
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar : 
The frolic Naiads drawing from below 
A net of silver round the black canoe. 
Now the last lonely solace must it be 
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea. 
Then join my friends, and let those friends believe 
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve. 



THE DRAGON-FLY. 

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ; 
I wish no happier one than to be laid 
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade ; 

Or wavy willow, by the running stream, 
Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly 
Wanders as careless and content as I. 

Thanks for this fancy, insect king, 
Of purple crest and meshy wing, 



272 L A N D R. 

Who, with indifference, givest up 
The water-lily's golden cup. 
To come again and overlook 
What I am writing in my hook. 
Believe me, most who read the line 
Will read with hornier eyes than thine ; 
And yet their souls shall live for ever. 
And thine drop dead into the river I 
God pardon them, O insect king, 
Who fancy so unjust a thing ! 



TO lANTHE. 

While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, 
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom ; 
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, 
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands : 
Alone, and destitute of every page 
That fires the poet, or informs the sage. 
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove, 
Rest upon past or cherish promised love ? 
Alas ! the past I never can regain, 
Wishes may rise, and tears may flo^v in vain. 
Fancy, that shows her in her early bloom. 
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. 
What then would passion, what would reason do 1 
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue. 
Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour, 
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour ; 
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea. 
Think of my love, and bid her think of me. 



LAND OR. 273 



FiESULAN IDYL. 



Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound 

Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires ; 

And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, 

Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, 

And softer sighs, that know not what they want : 

Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree 

Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 

Of sights in Fiesole right up above. 

While I was gazing a few paces off 

At what they seemed to show me with their nods, 

Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 

A gentle maid came down the garden steps, 

And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 

I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth 

To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 

(Such I believed it must be) ; for sweet scents 

Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, 

And nurse and pillow the dull memory 

That would let drop without them her best stores. 

They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, 

And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 

To let all flowers live freely, and all die, 

Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart, 

Among their kindred in their native place. 

1 never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 

Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 

And not reproacht me ; the ever sacred cup 

Of the pure lily hath between my hands 

Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 

I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 

More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 



274 L A N D R. 

Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
I saw the foot, that, although half erect 
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up 
To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
And g-ather'd her some blossoms, since their hour 
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 
Of harder wing were working their way through 
And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved. 
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, 
For such appear the petals when detach'd, 
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun : 
Yet every one her gown received from me 
Was fairer than the first — I thought not so, 
But so she praised them to reward my care. 
I said : " You find the largest." 

" This indeed," 
Cried she, " is large and sweet." 

She held one forth, 
Whether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts. 
I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part 
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature 
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
To fall, and yet unfallen. 

She drew back 
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 
The riband at her waist to fix it in, 
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 



LAND OR. 275 



THE maid's lament. 



I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 

I feel I am alone. 
I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, 

Alas ! I would not check. 
For reasons not to love him once I sought. 

And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would give 

My love could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and, when he found 

'Twas vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 

I waste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me ! but mine returns, 

And this lorn bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years 

Wept he as bitter tears ! 
" Merciful God !" such was his latest prayer, 
" These may she never share !" 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 

Than daisies in the mould, 
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, 

His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, 

And, oh ! pray, too, for me ! 



276 L A N D R. 



TO CORINTH. 

Queen of the double sea, beloved of him 

Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen 

Glory in all her beauty, all her forms ; 

Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left 

The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind, 

Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight, 

So high that vastest billows from above 

Show but like herbage waving in the mead ; 

Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games, 

And pass away — the beautiful, the brave, 

And them who sang their praises. 

But, O Queen, 
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs. 
As when they first were uttered, are those words 
Divine which praised the valiant and the just; 
And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge 
So perilous, him who brought before his eye 
The Colchian babes. 

" Stay ! spare him ! save the last ! 
Medea ! — is that blood 1 again ! it drops 
From my imploring hand upon my feet ; — 
I will invoke the Eumenides no more. 
I will forgive thee — bless thee — bend to thee 
In all thy wishes— do but thou, Medea, 
Tell me, one lives." 

" And shall I too deceive ]" 
Cries from the fiery car an angry voice ; 
And swifter than two falling stars descend 



LAND OR. 277 

Two breathless bodies — warm, soft, motionless, 

As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, 

They lie three paces from him — such they lie 

As when he left them sleeping side by side, 

A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks 

Between them, flushed with happiness and love. 

He was more changed than they were — doomed to show 

Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred 

Grief hunts us down the precipice of years. 

And whom the faithless prey upon the last. 

To give the inertest masses of our earth 
Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods 
Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round 
With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. 
A nobler work remains : thy citadel 
Invites all Greece ; o'er lands and floods remote 
Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee : 
Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled 
Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings 
Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on ; 
Instinct is sharp in them, and terror true — 
They smell the floor whereon their necks must lie. 



THE BRIAR. 

My briar that smelledst sweet, 
When gentle spring's first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins ; 
Thou that couldst injure none, 
But wouldst be left alone. 
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. 
24 



278 L A N D R. 

What ! hath no poet's lyre 
O'er thee sweet breathing briar, 

Hung fondly, ill or well ] 
And yet, methinks with thee, 
A poet's sympathy. 
Whether in weal or wo, in life or death, might dwell. 

Hard usage both must bear. 
Few hands your youth will rear. 

Few bosoms cherish you ; 
Your tender prime must bleed 
Ere you are sweet, but freed 
From life, you then are prized ; thus prized are poets too. 



In Clementina's artless mien 

Lucilla asks me what I see. 
And are the roses of sixteen 
Enough for me ? 

Lucilla asks, if that be all. 

Have I not cull'd as sweet before — 
Ah, yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 
I still deplore. 

I now behold another scene. 

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, 
More pure, more constant, more serene, 
And not less bright. 

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose, 

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever ; 
And Modesty, who, when she goes, 
Is gone for ever. 



CAMPBELL. 279 

Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, in the year 1777. He 
was educated at the University of that city ; into which he entered 
at twelve years of age, and where he rapidly obtained distinction. 
From Glasgow, he removed to the Scottish Metropolis, and culti- 
vated acquaintance with the many celebrated men who, at that 
period, resided there, and who perceived a kindred spirit in the 
youthful Poet. Here he published the " Pleasures of Hope," — a 
poem which at once achieved the fame that time has not dimi- 
nished, and which must endure with the language in which it is 
written. Upwards of twenty years elapsed before Mr. Campbell 
again essayed a continued work ; but during the interval, he pro- 
duced those immortal odes, the " Battle of the Baltic," " Ye 
Mariners of England," and " Hohenlinden," — the field of which, 
during the battle, he is said to have overlooked from the walls of a 
neighbouring convent. In 1 820, he published " Gertrude of Wyo- 
ming," — a poem sufficient to maintain the high reputation he had 
acquired, and which, indeed, is by many preferred to the "Plea- 
sures of Hope." In 1824, appeared " Theodric," a domestic tale; 
and these, with the exception of his minor poems — the term can 
have reference only to their length — comprise the whole of his 
contributions to English poetry. In the year 1820, Mr. Campbell 
undertook the Editorship of the "New Monthly Magazine," which 
he relinquished in 1830 ; and in the conduct of which Mr. S. C. 
Hall had the honour to succeed him. Soon afterwards Mr. Camp- 
bell undertook a voyage to Algiers, the results of which he has 
recently communicated to the public. During three successive 
years, he was elected Lord Rector of the University in which he 
received his education, — a distinction the more marked, inasmuch 
as his competitors were Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Canning. To 
Mr. Campbell we are mainly indebted for the establishment of the 
London University : the plan for its formation originated with him, 
and was by him matured ; although he left its completion in the 
hands of his more active or more influential contemporaries. 

Mr. Campbell is rather below than above the middle stature. 
The expression of his countenance indicates the sensitiveness of 
his mind. His eye is large, and of a deep blue; his manners are 
peculiarly bland and insinuating : in general society he is exceed- 
ingly cheerful, and his conversation abounds in pointed humour. 



280 CAMPBELL. 

His general appearance is, however, considered to lend force to the 
supposition, that he dislikes labour ; and is rarely roused to more 
than momentary exertion. At College, he rose to high repute as a 
scholar ; and he has since taken some steps to maintain the cha- 
racter he acquired ; his lectures on Greek poetry have been pub- 
lished. It has been a subject of regret, that Mr. Campbell has 
written so little. But those who so express themselves forget that 
it is far more to their advantage to have a few finished models, 
than a mass of crude and incomplete formations ; and that it is 
only by long labour in execution, and still longer labour in pre- 
paratory thought and arrangement, that perfection can be produced. 
There is not one of the fine " Odes" of Campbell that would be 
sacrificed for a volume : it may be even questioned -which the 
world would most willingly permit to perish, — " The Pleasures of 
Hope," or " Ye Mariners of England." The whole of his works 
have been recently collected, and published in two volumes ; and, 
we understand, a new edition, splendidly illustrated by Turner, 
R. A. is in preparation. 

The poetry of Campbell is universally felt, and therefore uni- 
versally appreciated. His appeals are made to those sensations 
which are common to mankind. While his poetry can bear the 
test of the severest criticism, it is intelligible to the simplest under- 
standing. As little occurs to dissatisfy the mind as the ear. His 
conceptions are natural and true ; and the language in which he 
clothes them is gracefiil and becoming. If he has laboured hard — 
as it is said he always does — to render his verse easy and harmo- 
nious, he never leads the reader to suspect that his care to produce 
harmony has weakened his original thought. He affords no evi- 
dence of fastidiousness in the choice of words ; yet they always seem 
the fittest for his purpose, and are never forced into a service they 
are not calculated to perform. He combines the qualities so rarely 
met together — strength and smoothness — yet his vigour is never 
coarse, and his delicacy never effeminate. His subjects have been 
all skilfully chosen ; — he has sought for themes only where a pure 
mind seeks them ; and turned from the grosser passions, the meaner 
desires and the vulgar sentiments of man, as things unfitted for 
verse, and unworthy of illustration. The Poet has had his reward. 
His poems will perish only with the memories of mankind. 



CAMPBELL. 

TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, 

That send'st it from above ; 
Appearing w^hen heaven's breath and brow^ 

Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, — 

And songs, when toil is done. 
From cottages, whose smoke unstirr'd, 

Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art, — 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. 
24* 



282 CAMPBELL. 

Still seem as to my childhood's sight, 
A midway station g-iven — 

For happy spirits to alight 
Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 

Thy form to please me so, 
As when I dreamt of gems and gold 

Hid in thy radiant bow 1 

When Science from creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
But words of the Most High 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. 

How came the world's gray fathers forth, 
To watch thy sacred sign 1 

And w^hen its yellow lustre smiled 
O'er mountains yet untrod, 

Each mother held aloft her child. 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methuiks, thy jubilee to keep. 
The first made anthem rang 

On earth, delivered from the deep. 
And the first poet sang. 



CAMPBELL. 283 



Nor ever shall the Muse's eye, 
Unraptured greet thy beam ; 

Thdme of primeval prophecy, 
Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, — 

When glittering in the freshen'd fields 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town ; 

Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down I 

As fresh as yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties seem. 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age. 
That first spoke peace to man. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

Ye mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. 

The battle and the breeze : 



•284 CAMPBELL. 

Your glorious standard launch again, 
To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy tempests blow : 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow, — 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow : 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark, — 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak. 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy tempests blow : 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn, 
Till danger's troubled night depart. 
And the star of peace return. 



CAMPBELL. 285 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors, 

Our song- and feast shall flow 

To 'the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow : 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing, 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. 

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh ! 

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger. 
The w^ild deer and w^olf to a covert can flee ; 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger, — 
A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hourt 

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken. 

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken. 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more 1 
Oh, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me 1 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me 1 

They died to defend me, — or live to deplore ! 



286 CAMPBELL. 

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ^ 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall I 
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? 
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ] 
Oh, my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure. 
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ] 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,— 
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 
Erin mavournin, — Erin go bragh ! 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 



CAMPBELL. 287 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall g-low 
On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, — but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry. 

Few, few shall part where many meet. 
The snow shall be their winding sheet,— 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die. 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 



288 CAMPBELL, 

Adown the gulf of time ! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The earth with age was wan ; 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands ; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high. 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm pass'd by, — 
Saying, " We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis mercy bids thee go. 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

" What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth. 

The vassals of his will : 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; 



CAMPBELL. 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Hear4 not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

" Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men ; 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to wri.he ; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

" Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sunless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death. 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

" This spirit shall return to Him 
That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dun 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 



25 



290 CAMPBELL. 

By Him recall'd to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of victory, 

And took the sting from Death ! 

" Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up 

On nature's awful waste. 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste ; 
Go, tell the knight that hides thy face. 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. 

On earth's sepulchral clod ; 
The dark'ning universe defy 
To quench his immortality. 

Or shake his trust in God !" 



THE soldier's DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lower'd. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, — 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die, 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain ; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track ; 

'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. 



CAMPBELL. 291 

1 flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 

In life's morning march when my bosom was young; 

I heard my awn mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us, —rest, thou art weary and worn ; 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay : 
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



292 PROCTER. 

Bryan Waller Procter was born in London : he received his 
education at Harrow ; and on his removal from the school was 
articled to a solicitor, of the name of Atherton, at Calne, in Wilt- 
shire, — one of the most uninteresting towns in the kingdom, yet 
celebrated as having been the residence of Moore, Crabbe, Coleridge, 
Bowles, and Procter. Mr. Procter continued here about four years, 
acquiring a knowledge of the profession for which he was intended, 
and proceeded to the metropolis, where he became the pupil of 
an eminent conveyancer ; and where he applied himself diligently 
to a pursuit as opposed to that to which his genius inclined him, 
as can be well imagined. He has since been called to the bar. 

Mr. Procter is below the middle size ; his countenance is not 
characteristic of energy, but its expression is peculiarly gentle, 
and his manners are kindly and conciliating to a degree. There 
is no living Poet more universally respected and esteemed : he is 
said to be exceedingly sensitive, and he is evidently averse to force 
his way to that professional distinction, which the extent of his 
acquirements might readily achieve for him. Of late, however, 
he has written but little poetry ; and, it is understood, has devoted 
himself so assiduously to acquire legal knowledge, that, as a 
chamber counsel, his skill is largely appreciated, and his practice 
extensive. We trust, he will not long remain known only to the 
" attorneys ;" among his contemporaries he may find at least one 
instance of fame achieved in the opposite paths of Law and Poetry. 

Barry Cornwall — for under that name he obtained his fame as 
a poet, and he has hitherto published under no other — first appeared 
before the world in the year 1815. His " D/amatic Scenes" at 
once established a reputation, which he has since sustained by the 
publication of the " Sicilian Story," " Marcian Colonna," the " Flood 
of Thessaly," the tragedy of " Mirandola," and various " Miscel- 
laneous Poems ;" and, although we believe he has not issued any 
work in prose, he has afforded proof, in various periodical works, 
of his large capacity in this department of literature. 

Mr. Procter, in an advertisement to his " Dramatic Scenes," states 
that his leading intention was to " try the effect o'' a more natural 
style than that which had for a long time prevailed in our dramatic 
literature." The experiment was successful : he is the undoubted 
restorer of those quick and natural turns of impulsive dialogue, to 
which the drama had been a stranger since the times of Beaumont 



PROCTER. 293 

and Fletcher. He cannot be said to equal in energy the older 
writers, Avho have been his models, but at times he approaches 
them very nearly, in deep feeling, in true pathos, and in fine and 
delicate delineations of human character. One great advantage, 
also, he possesses in common with them, — earnestness ; the reader 
is made to sympathize deeply with the persons whose sufferings 
the author depicts : it is singular that nearly all the topics which 
the Poet has selected for illustration, should have been based upon 
melancholy ; and that he appears always more inclined to the treat- 
ment of topics which leave a sadness upon the minds of his readers. 
The latest publication of Barry Cornwall is a volume of songs, 
collected chiefly from the various works in which they had pre- 
viously appeared. As a song writer, also, he frequently hits those 
apparently vague, but really subtle, analogies in the feeling of the 
beautiful which characterize the Old Poets ; but if he occasionally 
rivals them in grace, fancy, and sweetness, he now and then falls 
into the common error of considering as perfections their artifi. 
cialities, and their conceits ; " preferring the quaint to the natural, 
and often losing truth in searching after originality," The lyrics 
of Barry Cornwall are, therefore, however exquisite as small poems, 
unlikely to make their way among the multitude ; and, with few 
exceptions, have not been received as national songs. We have 
seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity : com- 
positions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as 
household words, because they treat of matters common to all, in 
language understood by all, while the admirers of Barry Cornwall 
have been limited to those who have a refined taste, and a delicate 
appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will suffi- 
ciently prove the fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound 
mind, a rich fancy, a rare and exquisite skill in dealing with words, 
and a pure style of versification, is evident in them all. Mr. 
Procter has, however, kept the promise of his genius. Among the 
Poets of Great Britain he holds a very foremost rank ; if, now that 
his judgment is matured, he would again essay dramatic composi- 
tion, he might occupy a station still higher, — and take his undis- 
puted seat beside the glorious creators of a gone-by age, whose 
fame is imperishable. 

25* 



PROCTER. 



THE FISHERMAN. 



A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, 

Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea, 

In the wild waters labouring-, far from home, 

For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam ! 

Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life 

And none to aid him in the stormy strife : 

Companion of the sea and silent air, 

The lonely fisher thus must ever fare ; 

Without the comfort, hope,— with scarce a friend, 

He looks throug-h life, and only sees-its end ! 

Eternal ocean ! Old majestic sea ! 

Ever love I from shore to look on thee, 

And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride. 

And sometimes o'er thy summer breast to glide : 

But let me live on land, where rivers run,— 

Where shady trees may screen me from the sun; 

Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air ; 

Where (whate'er toil or wearying pains I bear) 

Those eyes, which look away all human ill. 
May shed on me their still, sweet, constant light ; 
And the little hearts I love may (day and night) 
Be found beside me safe and clustering still ! 



PROCTER. 295 



SONG. 



Here's a health to thee, Mary. 
Here's a health to thee ; 

The drinkers are gone, 

And I am alone. 
To think of home and thee, Mary. 

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, 
And many as frank and free ; 

And a few as fair, — 

But the summer air 
Is not more sweet to me, Mary. 

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary, 
And thy dimm'd and gentle eye ; 

And I've call'd on thy name 

When the night winds came. 
And heard my heart reply, Mary. 

Be thou but true to me, Mary, 
And I'll be true to thee ; 

And at set of sun, 

When my task is done, 
Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary. 



WOMAN. 

Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, 
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume ; 
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair, 
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair. 



296 



PROCTER. 

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, 
Is struck with cold mortality ; 
And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled, 
And every charm has now left the dead. 

Like slaves theyobey'd her in height of power, 
But left her all in her wintry hour ; 
And the crowds that swore for her love to die, 
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh;— 
And this is man's fidelity ! 

'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart, 
Can see all these idols of life depart ; 
And love the more, and smile and bless 
Man in his uttermost wretchedness. 



STANZAS. 

In glowing youth he stood beside 
His native stream, and saw it glide, 
Showing- each gem beneath its tide,— 
Calm as though nought could break its rest, 
Reflecting heaven on its breast ; 
And seeming, in its flow, to be 
Like candour, peace, and piety. 

When life began its brilliant dream. 

His heart was like his native stream ; 

The wave-shrined gems could scarcely seem 

Less hidden than each wish it knew : 

Its life flow'd on as calmly, too ; 

And heaven shielded it from sin, 

To see itself reflected in. 



PROCTER. 297 

He stood beside that stream again, 
When years had fled in strife and pain ; 
He look'd for its calm course in vain, — 
For storms profaned its peaceful flow, 
And clouds o'erhung- its crystal brow ; — 
And turning then, he sigh'd to deem 
His heart still like his native stream. 



THE BLOOD HORSE. 

Gamarra is a dainty steed, 

Strong, black, and of a noble breed ; 

Full of fire, and full of bone. 

With all his line of fathers known : 

Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 

But blown abroad by the pride within ; 

His mane is like a river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 

In the darkness of the night, 

And his pace as swift as light : 

Look ! — how round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float ; 

Sinewy strength is on his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his veins 

Richer, redder never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire,' — 

Douglas, Guzman^ or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself! 

He — who hath no peer — was born 

Here, upon a red March morn ; 



298 PROCTER. 

But his famous fathers, dead, 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred : 

And the last of that great line 

Seemed as of a race divine ! 

And yet — he was but friend to one 

Who fed him at the set of sun, 

By some lone fountain fringed with green 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived — (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day) — 

And died untamed upon the sands 

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands! 



KING DEATH. 

King Death was a rare old fellow ! 

He sat where no sun could shine ; 
And he lifted his hand so yellow, 

And pour'd out his coal-black wine. 
Hurrah I for the coal-black wine ! 

There came to him many a maiden, 
Whose eyes had forgot to shine ; 

And widows, with grief o'erladen, 
For a draught of his sleepy wine. 

Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine ! 

The scholar left all his learning, — 

The poet his fancied woes ; 
And the beauty her bloom returning, 

Like life to the fading rose. 

Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine ! 



PROCTER. 

All came to the royal old fellow, 

Who laug-h'd till his eyes dropp'd brine ; 
As he gave them his hand so yellow, 
And pledg'd them in death's black wine. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine ! 



DIRGE. 

Let the moaning music die, 
Let the hope-deceived fly, 
Turn'd by strong neglect to pain ! 
Let the mind desert the brain, 
Leaving all to dark decay, 
Like a lump of idle clay ! 

They are gone who loved and— died, — 
The once lover and his bride ; 
Therefore we our sorrow weave 
Into songs ; — yet wherefore grieve 1 
Though they sleep an endless sleep, 
Why should we despair and weep? 
They are gone together : 
They are safe from wind and weather, 
Lightning and the drowning rain, 
And the hell of earthly pain. 
They are dead ; — or if they live. 
There is One who can forgive, • 
Though a thousand errors ran 
Through the fond, false heart of man. 



300 PROCTER. 

Let the moaning music perish ! 
Wherefore should we strive to cherish 
Sorrow, like the desert rain ] 
Though we weep, we weep in vain ! 
They are gone together, 

Haply to the summer shores, — 
Where the bright and cloudless weather 

Shineth, and for ever pours 
Music with the flooding light. 

And the night doth chase the day, 
And the morn doth chase the night, 

Like a starry fawn away ! 

They are gone — w^here pleasure reigns 
Sinless on the golden plains, 
Far above the scathing thunder, 

Far above the storms and jars 
Of earth, and live delighted under 

The bright silence of the stars ! 
Therefore let the music die, — 
Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly : 
They are happy, — happier than 
We who, in the mask of man, 
Pour our unavailing tears 
Over Beauty's number'd years ! 



SERENADE. 

Awake ! — the starry midnight hour 

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ; 
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower. 
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight : 
Awake I awake ! 
Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake ! 



PROCTER. 301 

Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise 

From daisied mead, and thorny brake ; 
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, 
And like the tender morning break ! 
Awake ! awake ! 
Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — within the musk-rose bower 

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee ; 
Ah, come and show the starry hour 

What wealth of love thou hidest from me ! 
Awake ! awake ! 
Show all thy love, for love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — ne'er heed, though listening night 

Steal music from thy silver voice ; 
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright. 
And bid the world and me rejoice ! 
Awake ! awake ! 
She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake ! 



LIFE. 



We are born ; we laugh, we weep, 
We love, we droop, we die ! 

Ah ! wherefore do we laugh, or weep 
Why do we live, or die 1 

Who knows that secret deep 1 — 
Alas, not I ! 

26 



^^^ PROCTER. 



Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye 1 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly 1 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil— through pain and wrong ; 

We fight, and fly ; 
We love, we lose— and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
O life ! is all thy song 

" Endure and— die ]" 



TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD. 



Poor singer ! hath the fowler's gun, 
Or the sharp winter done thee harm 1 

We'll lay thee gently in the sun, 
And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm 

Perhaps some human kindness still 

May make amends for human ill. 

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well. 
And save thee from the winter wild, ' 

Till summer fall on field and fell, 
And thou shalt be our feather'd child ; 

And tell us all thy pain and wrong. 

When thou canst speak again in song. 



PROCTER. 303 



Fear not, nor tremble, little bird, 

We'll use thee kindly now ; 
And sure there's in a friendly word 

An accent even thou shouldst know ; 
For kindness which the heart doth teach 
Disdaineth all peculiar speech : 

'Tis common to the bird and brute, 
To fallen man, to angel bright ; 

And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute 
Heard in the air at night ; 

Divine and universal tongue, 

Whether by bird or spirit sung ! 

But, hark ! is that a sound we hear 
Come chirping from its throat, 

Faint, short — but weak — and very clear, 
And like a little grateful note 1 

Anotlier 1 ha ! look where it lies, — 

It shivers, — gasps, — is still, — it dies ! 

'Tis dead ! 'tis dead ! and all our care 

Is useless. Now, in vain 
The mother's wo doth pierce the air, 

Calling her nestling bird again ! 
All's vain ; the singer's heart is cold. 
Its eye is dim, — its fortune told ! 



AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS. 

Come, all ye feathery people of mid air, 

Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits 

Lie down with the wild winds ; and ye who build 



304 



PROCTER. 



Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool ; 
And ye, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs 
For suns to ripen, come ! O phoenix rare ! 
If death hath spared, or philosophic search 
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest, 
Perfect Arabian, — lonely nightingale ! 
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long. 
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest 
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs, 
Until they waken ; and thou, cuckoo bird. 
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape 
Material, but dost wander far and near, 
Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny 
Sight of her love, come all to my slow charm ! 
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn, 
Who springest like a thought unto the sun. 
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth 
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song), 
And with it enrich our ears ; come all to me, 
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies. 
And, in your several musics, whisper — Love ! 



BOWLES. dUO 

William Lisle Bowles, of an ancient family in the county of 
Wilts, was born in the village of King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire — 
a parish of which his father was vicar — on the 24th of September, 
1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chap- 
lain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The Poet received 
his early education at Winchester school ; and he rose to be the 
senior boy. He was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where he 
obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 
1792, he took his degree. On quitting the University, he entered 
into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire : soon 
afterwards he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire ; in 1803, 
he became a prebend of Salisbury : and Archbishop Moore pre- 
sented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where he has since 
constantly resided, — only now and then visiting the metropolis, — 
enjoying the country, and its peculiar sources of profitable delight, 
performing with zeal and industry his parochial duties, and beloved 
by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of 
his residence. 

The sonnets of Bowles, his first publication, appeared in 1793. 
They were received with considerable applause ; and the writer, if 
he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found 
ample recompense in the fact, that they contributed to form the 
taste, and call forth the genius of Coleridge, whom they " delighted 
and inspired." The author of " Christabel" speaks of himself as 
having been withdrawn from several perilous errors " by the genial 
influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, — so 
natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the son- 
nets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, however, satisfied with ex- 
pressing, in prose, his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out 
his gratitude to his first master in minstrel-lore : — 

" My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains. 
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring." 

In 1805, he published the " Spirit of Discovery by Sea :" it is 

the longest of his productions, and is generally considered his 

best. The most recent of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse 

Book," a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by com- 

26* 



306 BOWLES. 

parison with those of Dr. Watts; and which are admirably calcu- 
lated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed. 

Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by 
his controversy with Byron, on the subject of the writings of 
Pope. In prefacing an edition of the Works of Pope, he ad- 
vanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered 
him " no Poet ;" and that, according to the " invariable principles" 
of poetry, the century of fame which had been accorded to the 
" Essay on Man," was unmerited. Campbell opened the defence ; 
and Byron stepped forward as a warm, and somewhat angry advo- 
cate. A sort of literary warfare followed; and a host of pamphlets 
on both sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, the ques- 
tion remains precisely where it did. Bowles, however, though he 
failed in obtaining a victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to 
his " invariable principles," manifested during the contest so much 
judgment and ability, that his reputation as a critic was considera- 
bly enhanced. 

The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popu- 
larity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments, 
than for any loftiness of thought, or richness of fancy. He has 
never dealt with themes that " stir men's minds;" but has satisfied 
himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has con- 
sidered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the 
Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, 
" tender, yet manly ;" and he has, undoubtedly, brought the acces- 
sories of harmonious versification and gracefijl language to the aid 
of " right thinking," and sound judgment. His poems seldom 
startle or astonish the reader : he does not labour to probe the 
heart, and depict the more violent passions of human-kind ; but he 
keeps an " even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by 
attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture. 
The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his 
own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beau- 
tiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations 
than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignifi- 
cant : the topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are 
such, only, as are naturally excellent. 



BOWLES. 



ST. MICHAEL S MOUNT. 



Mountain ! no pomp of waving woods hast thou, 
That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow ; 
No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread, — 
No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed. 
But thou canst boast thy beauties, — ample views 
That catch the rapt eye of the pausing- Muse : 
Headlands around new-lighted ; sails, and seas 
Now glassy smooth, — now wrinkling to the breeze ; 
And when the drizzly winter, wrapt in sleet. 
Goes by, and wind and rain thy ramparts beat, — 
Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof, 
And frowning, bleak and bare, and tempest-proof. 
Look, as with awful confidence, and brave 
The howling hurricane, — the dashing wave ; 
More graceful when the storm's dark vapours frown, 
Than when the summer suns in pomp go down ! 

chantrey's sleeping children. 

Look at those sleeping children ! — softly tread. 

Lest thou do mar their dream ; and come not nigh 

'Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry, 

" 'Tis morn, awake ! awake !" Ah ! they are dead ! 

Yet folded in each other's arms they lie-^ 

So still — oh, look ! so still and smilingly ; 



^08 BOWLES. 

So breathing and so beautiful they seem 
As if to die in youth were to dream 

Of spring- and flowers !— of flowers 1 yet nearer stand- 
There is a lily in one little hand, 

Broken, but not faded yet, 

As if its cup with tears was wet ! 

So sleeps that child,— not faded, though in death ; 

And seeming still to hear her sister's breath. 

As when she first did lay her head to rest 

Gently on that sister's breast. 

And kiss'd her ere she fell asleep ! 

Th' archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep. 

" Take up those flowers that fell 

From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell ! 

Your spirits rest in bliss !— 

Yet ere with parting prayers we say 

Farewell for ever ! to the insensate clay, 

Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss !" 

Ah ! 'tis cold marble ! Artist, who has wrought 

This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,— 

Thine, Cliantrey, be the fame 

That joins to immortality thy name. 

For these sweet children that so sculptured rest,— 

A sister's head upon a sister's breast,— 

Age after age shall pass away, 

Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay : 

For here is no corruption,— the cold worm 

Can never prey upon that beauteous form : 

This smile of death that fades not, shall engage 

The deep affections of each distant age ! 

Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent, 

Shall gaze with tears upon the monument ! 

And fathers sigh, with half suspended breath, 

" How sweetly sleep the innocent in death !" 



BOWLES. 



RESTORATION OF MALMESBURY ABBEY. 

Monastic and time-consecrated fane ! 
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, 
Almost august, as in thy early day, 
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away. 
No more the mass on holidays is sung, 
The host high-raised, or fuming censer swung ; 
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow. 
With lighted tapers, in long order go ; — 
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, 
As to admit heaven's pale but purer light ; 
Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows, 
E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose 
Amid the silent sanctity of death, 
Like giants, seem to guard the dust beneath : 
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) 
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise ; 
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile. 
Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile, — 
Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains ? 
Oh, mightiest Master ! thy immortal strains 
These roofs demand. Listen, — with prelude slow. 
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow. 
And, hark ! again, heard ye the choral chaunt 
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant 1 
More softly now, imploring litanies. 
Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs 
Of penitence, from yon high altar rise : 
Again the vaulted roof " Hosannah" rings — 
" Hosannah ! Lord of lords, and King of kings !" 
Rent, but not prostrate, — stricken, yet sublime. 
Reckless alike of injuries or time ; 



310 BOWLES. 

Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty, 

The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy ! 

The temple of our Sion so shall mock 

The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock. 

Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock ! 



SUMMER EVENING, AT HOME. 

Come, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace 
Visit my humble dwelling, welcomed in. 
Not with loud shouts, and the throng'd city's din, 
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease 
Of the sick heart ; the grasshopper's faint pipe 
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe, 
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude 
Heard indistinctly from the village green. 
The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row scene. 
Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd, 
To pay him for his farewell song, — all these 
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please 
The stilly-stirring fancies, — though my hours 
(For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs) 
Pass lonely oft, — and oft my heart is sad ; 
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad 
To meet thee. Evening, here ; here my own hand 

Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes around, 
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd, 
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound, 
That seems to say, " Forget the transient tear 
Thy pale youth shed, — repose and peace are here." 



BOWLES. 311 



WINTER EVENING, AT HOME. 

Fair moon ! that at the chilly day's decline 
Of sharp December, through my cottage pane 
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane ; 

In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine. 
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey 
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way ; 

And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light. 
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall 
Sombrous and strange upon the dark'ning wall. 

Ere the clear tapers chase the deep'ning night ! 

Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, 

Shines calm and clear without ; and whilst I gaze 

I think — around me in this twilight room — 

I but remark mortality's sad gloom ; 

Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear 

In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere ! 



SONNETS. 



TIME ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 

The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away ; 

On thee I rest my only hope at last. 

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past. 



312 BOWLES. 

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile, 
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour 
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, 
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : — 
Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure 
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure ! 



DOVER CLIFFS. 

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood, 
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet. 
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat. 

Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood ; 

And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear. 
And o'er the distant billows the still eve 
Sail'd slow, has thought of all this heart must leave 

To-morrow ; of the friends he loved most dear ; 

Of social scenes, from which he wept to part ; 
But, if like me, he knew how fruitless all 
The tlioughts that would full fain the past recall, 

Soon would he quell the risings of his heart. 

And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide — 

The world his country, and his God his guide. 



As one, who, by long wasting sickness v/orn, 

Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard. 
Heartless the carol of the matin bird 

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn 

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; 

He the green slope and level meadow views. 
Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews ; 

Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head, 



BOWLES. 313 

In varying- forms fantastic wander white ; 
Or turns his ear to every random song-, 
Heard the geeen river's winding marge along, 

The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight : 

With such delight o'er all my heart I feel, 

Sweet Hope ! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal I 



Whose was the gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, 
Promised, methought, long days of bliss sincere ? 
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear. 
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat 
Thoughts dark and drooping ? 'Twas the voice of Hope 
Of love and social scenes, it seem'd to speak, 
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek ; 
That oh ! poor friend, might to life's downward slope 
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. 
Ah me ! the prospect sadden'd as she sung ; 
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung ; 
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bow'rs. 
Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, 
" No peace be thine," exclaim'd, " away ! away !" 



How shall I meet thee. Summer, wont to fill 
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide 
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side 

Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill ? 

Fresh flow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of the stream, 
As with the song of joyance and of hope. 
The hedge-rows shall ring aloud, and on the slope 

The poplars sparkle on the transient beam, 
27 



314 BOWLES. 

The shrubs and laurels which I love to tend, 

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, 

With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend. 
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight ! 

But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes, 

And weep for her who in the cold grave lies ! 



NETLEY ABBEY. 

Fall'n pile ! I ask not what has been thy fate ; 
But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, 
Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain. 

Come hollow to my ear, I meditate 

On this world's passing pageant, and the lot 
Of those who once full proudly in their prime 
And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time 

Or injury, their early boast forgot, 

They may have fallen like thee ; pale and forlorn, 
Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, 
They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn 

This short-lived scene of vanity and wo ; 

Whilst on their sad looks, smilingly, they bear 

The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care ! 



REMEMBRANCE. 

I SHALL look back, when on the main, — 

Back to my native isle, 
And almost think I hear again 

Thy voice, and view thy smile. 



BOWLES. 315 

But many days may pass away 

Ere I again shall see 
Amid the young-, the fair, the gay, — 

One who resembles thee. 

Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell 

On some ideal maid, 
Whom fancy's pencil pictured well, 

And touched with softest shade : 

The imaged form I shall survey, 

And, pausing at the view, 
Recal thy gentle smile, and say, 

" Oh, such a maid I knew !" 



316 TIGHE. 

Mary Tighe was born in Ireland, in the year 1773. Her father 
was the Rev. William Blachford, who died a few months after his 
daughter's birth. She was married early to Mr. Tighe, a gentle- 
man of distinguished family in the county of Wexford. A consi- 
derable portion of her life was spent at Woodstock, the seat of her 
brother-in-law, — one of the most beautiful and romantic places in 
Ireland. Her life was one of more than ordinary trial : her mar- 
riage was not a happy one : and she was for many years afflicted 
with ill health. She died at Woodstock, on the 24th of March, 1810. 

From the year 1804 to her death, Mrs. Tighe had been deprived 
of the use of her limbs ; and the poems she composed were dictated 
to an amanuensis. She was still lovely ; and is described as having 
been, in early life, eminently beautiful. The affection of her bro- 
ther-in-law — a gentleman of considerable literary taste — and the 
attentions of his accomplished lady, in some degree atoned for the 
ijeglect she experienced from her husband. 

" Psyche," the poem upon which mainly depends the reputation 
of Mrs, Tighe, was printed only for private circulation during the 
lifetime of the writer : it was published after her death, and be- 
came exceedingly popular, — passing rapidly through several edi- 
tions. It is written in the Spenserian stanza; and is founded on 
the allegory of Love and the Soul. The author was aware of the 
ditficulties with which she had to contend, in following the plan of 
the ancient poets — "the fountains and first fruits of wisdom" — 
who their choicest fables 

" Wrapt in perplexed allegories ;" 

and perhaps would have been amazed at the extent of popularity 
achieved by her poem. She wrote with but a ve y remote idea of 
finding fame beyond her own limited circle. It is but reasonable 
to suppose that much of her posthumous rt:putation was obtained 
by the sad, yet interesting, history of her life ; for her genius can 
scarcely be considered as of a sufficiently h gh and original cha- 
racter to overcome the obstacles she herself perceived. The nar- 
rative is tedious ; and the style, although highly refined, is tame 
and encumbered with imagery. The Editor of the volume, in a 



T I G H E. 317 

brief preface to her works, describes her as displaying an " inti- 
mate acquaintance with classical literature, and as guided by a 
taste for real excellence," " as one who has delivered in polished 
language such sentiments as can tend only to encourage and im- 
prove the best sensations of the human heart." Such merit is 
undoubtedly hers ; she affords abundant proof of an amiable and 
highly cultivated mind ; but she can scarcely be classed high 
among the Poets of her age and countj*y. Among her minor 
compositions, there are several of exceeding delicacy and beauty ; 
that " On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon," was written only a 
few days prior to her death. 

Her poems were produced at a period when proofs of female 
intellect were rare. The world has since been more fortunate. 
The Muses are no longer jealous of the Graces. Their alliance 
has added greater softness and sweetness to previous strength : the 
female character has shed its influence on the tone of our literature, 
as well as on tliat of the domestic circle. The preceding volumes 
of this Work contained no examples of female genius; — they were 
sought for earnestly, but were not found. The present contains 
many. It is both the peculiarity and the glory of our age, that it 
has kept pace with the advances of masculine intellect, without 
encroaching on its province. Such an accession to the Muses' 
train was in every respect desirable and necessary, to fill up a 
blank in letters^ a void in the history of the human mind, — or to 
give the last finishing to the symmetry and beauty of that ancient 
and much-vaunted edifice, the Temple of Fame. 

"Firm Doric pillars found its solid base; 
The fair Corinthian crown the higher space ; 
Thus all below is strength, but ail above is grace." 

We may avail ourselves of this opportunity to express our regret 
that the rules to which we are necessarily limited, must preclude 
from introduction into this volume, the names of several other 
women, who have obtained and merited a large share of popularity. 
They will readily occur to our readers. 
27* 



TIGHE. 

HAGAR m THE DESERT. 

Injured, hopeless, faint, and weary, 
Sad, indignant, and forlorn, 

Throug-h the desert wild and dreary, 
Hagar leads the child of scorn. 

Who can speak a mother's anguish. 
Painted in that tearless eye. 

Which beholds her darling languish,- 
Languish unrelieved, and die. 

Lo ! the empty pitcher fails her. 
Perishing with thirst he lies ; 

Death, with deep despair assails her. 
Piteous as for aid he cries. 

From the dreadful image flying, 
Wild she rushes from the sight ; 

In the agonies of dying 

Can she see her soul's delight 1 

Now bereft of every hope. 

Cast upon the burning ground, 

Poor, abandoned soul ! look up, 
Mercy have thy sorrows found* 



TIGHE. 319 

Lo! the angel of the Lord 

Comes thy great distress to cheer ; 
Li^en to the gracious word, 

See divine relief is near. 

" Care of Heaven ! thoilgh man forsake thee, 
Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn ? 

From thy dream of wo awake tb.ee, 
To thy rescued child return. 

" Lift thine eyes, behold yon fountain. 

Sparkling mid those fruitful trees ; 
Lo ! beneath yon sheltering mountain 

Smile for thee green bovvers of ease. 

" In tlie hour of sore affliction, 

God hath seen and pitied thee ; 
Cheer thee in the sweet conviction. 

Thou henceforth his care shalt be. 

" Be no more by doubts distressed, 

Mother of a mighty race ! 
By contempt no more oppressed. 

Thou hast found a resting place.'* 

Thus from peace and comfort driven, 

Thou, poor soul, all desolate ; 
Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven 

Found thee, in thy abject state. 

O'er thy empty pitcher, mourning. 

Mid the desert of the world ; 
Thus, with shame and anguish burning", 

From thy cherished pleasures hurled : 



3*20 T I G H E. 

See thy great deliverer nigh, 
Calls thee from thy sorrow vain ; 

Bids thee on his love rely, 
Bless the salutary pain. 

From thine eyes the mist dispelling, 
Lo ! the well of life he shows ; 

In his presence ever dwelling. 
Bids thee find thy true repose. 

Future prospects rich in blessing, 
Open to thy hopes secure ; 

Sure of endless joys possessing, 
Of an heavenly kingdom sure. 



FROM " PSYCHE. ' 

When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth, 
And the gay hours on downy wing advance. 
Oh ! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of truth 
Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance 
The raptured soul by intermingling glance 
Of mutual bliss ; sweet amid roseate bowers, 
Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance, 
Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers. 
Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm, unclouded hours. 

Yet they, who light of heart in May-day pride, 
Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song, 
(Though he their softest pleasures may provide, 
Even then when pleasures in full concert throng) 



T I G H E. 321 

Tliey cannot know with what enchantment strong- 
He steals upon the tender suffering soul, 
What gently -soothing- charms to him belong, 
How melting sorrow owns his soft control, 
Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll. 

When vexed by cares, and harassed by distress, 
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread, 
Let love, consoling love ! still sweetly bless. 
And his assuasive balm benignly shed ; 
His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread. 
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose ; 
To love the tender heart hath ever fled. 
As on its mother's breast the infant throws 
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes. 

Oh ! fondly cherish, then, the lovely plant. 
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease ; 
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant, 
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze ; 
And when rude winter sliall thy roses seize. 
When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain, 
This still with undeciduous charms shall please. 
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain, 
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain. 

Through the hard season love, with plaintive note, 
Like the kind redbreast tenderly shall sing. 
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat, 
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing, 
With cheerful promise of returning spring 
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove. 
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting 
Of baneful peevishness ; oh ! never prove 
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle love ! 



322 



Repentance may the storm of passion chase, 
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast, • 
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace. 
And, smiling, wipe his tearful eye at last : 
Yet when the wind's rude violence is past. 
Look what a wreck the scattered fields display ! 
See on the ground the- withering blossoms cast ! 
And hear sad Philomel, with piteous lay, 
Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away. 

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed, 
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue, 
May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread, 
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong. 
But ah, beware ! the gentle power too long 
Will not endure the frown of angry strife ; 
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng 
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life, 
And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife. 

Oh ! he will tell you that these quarrels bring 
The ruin, not renewal of his flame : 
If oft repeated, lo ! on rapid wing 
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame ; 
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame 
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain ! 
Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim. 
Asserts for ever her repulsive reign. 
Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train. 

Indifference, dreaded power ! what art shall save 
The good so cherished from thy grasping hand '? 
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave 
Thy treacherous arts prepare ] or how withstand 



323 



The insidious foe, who, with her leaden band, 
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity ] 
Ah, never more to wake ! or e'er expand 
His golden pinions to the breezy sky. 
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye. 

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang, 
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway ? 
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang 
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey ; 
Sees rapture's brilliant colours fade away ; 
And all the glow of beaming sympathy : 
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray 
That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye 
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy. 

Too faithful heart ! thou never canst retrieve 
Thy withered hopes : conceal the cruel pain 1 
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve ; 
But never to the unfeeling ear complain : 
From fruitless struggles dearly bojght refrain ! 
Submit at once, — the bitter task resign. 
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain ; 
Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine. 
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine! 

But lo ! the joyous sun, the sofl-breathed gales 
By zephyrs sent to kiss the placid seas, 
Curl the green wave, and fill the swelling sails ; 
The seamen's shouts, which jocund hail the breeze, 
Call the glad knight the favouring hour to seize. 
Her gentle hostess. Psyche, oft embraced, 
Who still solicitous her guest to please, 
On her fair breast a talisman had placed. 
And with the valued gem her parting blessing graced. 



32i T I G H E. 

How gaily now the bark pursues its way, 
Urg-ed by the steady gale ! while round the keel 
The bubbling currents in sweet whispers play, 
Their force repulsive now no more they feel ; 
No clouds the unsullied face of heaven conceal, 
But the clear azure one pure dome displays. 
Whether it bids the star of day reveal 
His potent beams, or Cyn hia's milder rays 
On deep cerulean skies invite the eye to gaze. 



ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON, 
WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DECEMBER, 1809. 

Odours of spring, my sense ye charm 

With fragrance premature ; 
And, mid these days of dark alarm, 

Almost to hope allure. 
Methinks with purpose soft ye come 

To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom. 

Her sunny gales and showers. 

Alas ! for me shall May in vain 

The powers of life restore ; 
These eyes that weep and watch in pain 

Shall see her charms no more. 
No, no, this anguish cannot last ! 

Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past. 

Could I resign but you. 



T I G H E. 325 

Bat oh ! in every mortal pang 

That rends my soul from life, — 
That .soul, which seems on you to hang 

Through each convulsive strife, 
Even now, with agonizing grasp 

Of terror and regret, 
To all in life its love would clasp, 

Clings close and closer yet. 

Yet why, immortal, vital spark ! 

Thus mortally opprest ] 
Look up, my soul, through prospects dark 

And bid thy terrors rest ; 
Forget, forego thy earthly part, 

Thine heavenly being trust : 
Ah, vain attempt ! my coward heart 

Still shuddering clings to dust. 

Oh ye ! who soothe the pangs of death 

With love's own patient care. 
Still, still retain this fleeting breath, 

Still pour the fervent prayer. 
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye 

No more, nor voice my ear. 
Who breathe for me the tender sigh. 

And shed the pitying tear ; 

Whose kindness (though far, far removed) 

My grateful thoughts perceive. 
Pride of my life, esteemed,'beloved, 

My last sad claim receive ! 
Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, 

Forget alone her faults ; 
And speak of her with fond regret 

Who asks your lingering thoughts. 
28 



326 w L c T. 

John Wolcot, who achieved so much popularity, or rather, noto- 
riety, under the assumed name of " Peter Pindar," was born at 
Dodbrock, in the county of Devon, in 1738. He was educated at 
the free-school of Kingsbridge, and was articled to his uncle, an 
apothecary, at Fowey. In 1767, he accompanied Sir William 
Trelawney to Jamaica, as a physician, having previously procured 
his degree from Edinburgh ; but finding his profession unprofitable, 
he was induced to take holy orders, and obtained a living in the 
island. The mind of his patron, under whose advice he acted, in 
thus changing the avowed object of his life, appears to have been 
as gross as that of the patronised ; — it was understood between them 
that the one was " to get himself japanned," as an easy mode of 
obtaining " loaves and fishes" from the other. On the death of 
Trelawney, Wolcot returned to England, and, considering his for- 
mer calling more likely to be profitable than his latter, settled as a 
medical practitioner at Truro, in Cornwall. In 1780, he accom- 
panied to London the painter, Opie, whose genius he had the merit 
of discovering, and whom he rescued from obscurity. In London 
he commenced his literary career, by a series of attacks on the 
Royal Academy. His skill as an artist was considerable ; and he 
was, therefore, enabled to mingle so much truth and judgment 
with his criticisms, as to give point and effect to his coarse and 
bitter sarcasms. He was not, however, long satisfied to hunt such 
" small game ;" but began a series of disgusting attacks upon the 
person and family of the king. The wit and humour which 
abounded in these compositions procured them to be relished ; and 
the writer rapidly attained to an extent of popularity unparalleled 
in his age. He died at Somerstown, on the 14th of January, 1819, 
in the eighty -first year of his age ; — for a long period he received 
an annuity from his publishers ; and contrived to amass a property 
by no means inconsiderable. It is said, that at one period his 
poems were so galling to the highest powers in the realm, that an 
attempt was made to purchase his silence by a government annuity. 
It was, however, unsuccessful; and "Peter Pindar" continued to 
the last Iiis system of ridicule and slander. 

If we may judge the personal character of Dr. Wolcot from his 
writings, and the anecdotes that are told of him, his mind and his 
habits must have been gross and sensual to a degree. He felt no 



w L c T. 327 

remorse at wounding — either to procure money, or to gratify un- 
called-for spleen — the feelings of the highest and the most virtuous 
persons in the .realm. He speaks in one of his satires of his " lean 
heart ;" it was evidently incapable of sympathy with the better 
sensations of humanity. In all his writings he appears to have 
been actuated by that sentiment which a later wit describes as 
" the malice in a good thing, — being the barb that makes it sick." 
The satirist, in his old age, was afflicted with blindness ; his winter 
was the opposite of that which has been described as " frosty but 
kindly :" still he continued to send forth his squibs ; and grieved 
only that he had lost the power of making them hurt. The objects 
of his enmity had been gradually removed out of his reach. One 
of his friends visited him on his death-bed ; and, asking the worn- 
out sinner if he could do aught to gratify him, received this memo- 
rable reply, " Yes ; give me back my youth !" 

We owe some apology for introducing him into this volume. It 
would, perhaps, be wrong to omit a writer who obtained so large a 
share of public attention, and whose works were, at one period, 
circulated to an almost incredible extent. The subjects of which 
he treated were for the most part of temporary interest; and he is, 
consequently, even now very nearly forgotten. It is impossible to 
deny, that his poems abound in wit and humour, and occasionally 
exhibit proofs of a genius, which, if the man's mind had not been 
naturally gangrened, might have placed him high among the 
satirical Poets of his country. In selecting our specimens, we 
have thought it desirable to pass over the grosser productions of his 
pen, and to extract a few of his lyrics, — some of which are ani- 
mated, elegant, and tender. Still his exceeding popularity will 
amaze modern readers ; and is to be accounted for only by believ- 
ing that which is humbling to humanity, — those who pander to our 
vices are more eagerly accepted than those who inculcate virtue ; 
and there, unhappily, prevails a disposition to encourage unprin- 
cipled persons who strive to render rank powerless, by making it 
contemptible. There are, however, few evils which time does not 
remove. The name of Peter Pindar is now seldom or never heard 
of; and if we find ourselves compelled to drag it from the obscurity 
to which it has been consigned, we trust that with the bane wc 
have given the antidote. 



WOLCOT. 



FIGHTING DOGS. 



Young men ! — 
I do presume that one of you in ten 
Has kept a dog or two, and has remark'd, 
That when you have been comfortably feeding, 
The curs, without one atom of court breeding, 
With wat'ry jaws, have whin'd, and paw'd, and bark'd ; 
Show'd anxiousness about the mutton bone, 
And, 'stead of your mouth, wish'd it in their ovra ; 
And if you gave this bone to one or t'other, 
Heav'ns w^hat a snarling, quarrelling, and pother I 
This, p'rhaps, has often touch'd you to the quick, 
And made you teach good manners by a kick ; 
And if the tumult was beyond all bearing, 
A little bit of sioeet emphatic swearing. 
An eloquence of wondrous use in wars, 
Amongst sea captains and the brave jack tars. 

Now tell me honestly, — pray don't you find 

Somewhat in Christians, just of the same kind 
That you experienc'd in the curs. 
Causing your anger and demurs ? 

As, for example, when your mistress, Fame, 

Wishing to celebrate a worthy name, 



wo LOOT. 329 

Takes up her trump to g-ive the just applause ; 

How have you, puppy-like, pavv'd, wish'd, and whin'd, 
How g-rowl'd, and curs'd, and swore, and pin'd, 

And long-'d to tear the trumpet from her jaws ! 

The dog-s deserv'd their kicking-, to be sure ; 

But you I O fie, boys ! go and sin no more. 



TO JULIA. 

From her whom ev'ry heart must love, 
And every eye with wonder see ; 

My sad, my lifeless steps remove, — 
Ah ! were she fair alone for me ! 

In vain to solitudes I fly, 

To bid her form from mem'ry part ; 
That form still dwells on mem'ry's eye, 

And roots its beauties in my heart. 

In ev'ry rose that decks the vales, 
I see her cheek's pure blush appear ; 

And when the lark the morning hails, 
'Tis Julia's voice salutes my ear. 

Thus let me rove the world around, 
Whatever beauty's charm can boast. 

Or soothe the soul with sweetest sound. 
Must pamt the idol I have lost. 

28* 



330 W L C T. 



The wretch, O let me never know, 
Who turns from pity's tearful eye ; 

Who melts not at the dirge of wo, 
But bids the soul renew its sigh ! 

O say not with the voice of scorn, 
" The lilies of thy neck are fled, 

Thine eyes their vanish'd radiance mourn, 
The roses of thy cheek are dead." 

Too cruel youth, with tears I own 
The rose and lily's sad decay ; 

And, sorrowing, wish for thee alone. 
Their transient bloom a longer day. 

Yet though thine eyes no longer trace 
The healthful blush of former charms, 

Remember that each luckless grace, 
O Colin, faded in thy arms ! 



MADRIGAL. 

When Love and Truth together play'd, 
So cheerful was the shepherd's song ! 

How happy, too, the rural maid ! 

How light the minutes wing'd along ! 

But Love has left the sighing vale. 

And Truth no longer tells her tale. 



wo LOOT. 

Sly stealing, see, from scene to scene, 
The watchful Jealousy appear ; 

And pale Distrust with troubled mien, 
The rolling eye, and list'ning ear ! 

For Love has left the sighing vale, 

And Truth no longer tells her tale. 

Ah ! shall we see no more the hour 
That wafted rapture on its wing ! 

With murmurs shall the riv'let pour. 
That prattled from its crystal spring ] 

Yes, yes, while Love forsakes the vale, 

And Truth no longer tells her tale. 



A PASTORAL SONG. 

Farewell, O farewell to the day, 
That smiling with happiness flew ! 

Ye verdures and blushes of May, 
Ye songs of the linnet, adieu ! 

In tears from the vale I depart. 
In anguish I move from the fair ; 

For what are those scenes to the heart 
Which Fortune has doom'd to despair .' 

Love frowns, — and how dark is the hour ! 

Of rapture, departed the breath ! 
So gloomy the grove and the bow'r, 

I tread the pale valley of death. 



331 



332 w L c T. 

With envy I wander forlorn, 

At the breeze which her beauty has fann'd ; 
And I envy the bird on the thorn, 

Who sits watching the crumbs from her hand. 

I envy the lark o'er her cot, 

Who calls her from slumber, so blest ; 

Nay, I envy the nightingale's note, 
The Siren who sings her to rest. 

On her hamlet once more let me dwell, — 
One look ! (the last comfort !) be mine ; 

O pleasure, and Delia, farewell ! 
Now, sorrow, I ever am thine. 



SONG. 

O NYMPH ! of Fortune's smiles beware, 
Nor heed the Siren's flattering tongue ; 

She lures thee to the haunts of care. 
Where sorrow pours a ceaseless song. 

Ah ! what are all her piles of gold ] 
Can those the host of care control 1 

The splendour which thine eyes behold, 
Is not the sunshme of the soul. 

To love alone thy homage pay. 
The queen of ev'ry true delight; 

Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day, 
And bless the visions of the night. 



WOLCOT. 



ECONOMY. 



Economy's a very useful broom, 

Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room 

To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb ; 
Too oft economy's an iron vice, 
That squeezes e'en the little guts of mice. 

That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb. 

Proper economy's a comely thing ; 
Good in a subject, — better in a king : 

Yet push'd too far, it dulls each finer feeling — 
Most easily inclin'd to make folks mean ; 
Inclines them, too, to villany to lean. 

To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing. 

E'en when the heart should only think of grief, 
It creeps into the bosom like a thief; 
And swallows up th' affections all so mild, — 
Witness the Jewess, and her only child. 

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son. 
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat, 
In imitation of th' ambitious great. 
High from the gall'ry, ere the play begun, 
He fell all plump into the pit. 
Dead in a minute as a nit : 
In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck ; 
Indeed, and very dreadful was the wreck ! 

The mother was distracted, raving, wild, — 
Shriek'd, tore her hair, embraced and kiss'd her child 
Afflicted every heart with grief around : 



334 woLcoT. 

Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past, 
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast, 

She cast about her eyes in thought profound ; 
And being with a saving knowledge bless'd, 
She thus the playhouse manager address'd : 

" Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad, 
Dat meet mishfarten here so bad ; 
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know, 
Ass Moses haf nat see de show." 



POLLOK. 335 

Robert Pollok was born in 1799, at Eaglesham, in Renfrewshire, 
— where his parents were occupied in agricultural pursuits. He 
gave early promise of the ability for which he was afterwards dis- 
tinguished, and his friends determined to educate him for the church. 
He was accordingly entered at the University of Glasgow, where 
he applied himself with ardour to the study of theology; but had 
scarcely commenced the exercise of his professional duties, when 
his health became so seriously impaired, that a visit to the south of 
Europe was recommended as the only means of preserving his life. 
In August, 1827, he quitted Scotland, and proceeded to Southamp- 
ton, with a view of embarking for Italy. His malady, however, 
continued to increase, and in the September of that year he died, 
at Shirley common. His early death is to be lamented ; for pro- 
bably a wider intercourse with mankind would not only have 
matured his natural talents, but would have produced a healthier 
state of mind as well as body. " Retired in voluntary loneliness," 
he saw only that which is cheerless in Nature, and depressing in 
Religion : — 

" To pleasure deaf. 
And joys of common men, working his way 
With mighty energy, not uninspired, 
Through all the mines of thought ; reckless of pain, 
And weariness, and wasted health." 

Soon after the death of the writer, his poem, « the Course of 
Time," attracted very general attention. He had previously pub- 
lished two stories in prose, " Ralph Gemmel," a tale for youth, and 
" the Persecuted Family," a narrative of the sufferings of the Pres- 
byterians, during the reign of Charles the Second. He was, how- 
ever, beyond the influence of criticism, when his book became 
largely the subject of it. It has been highly lauded,— we think 
too highly ; and find it difficult to ciccount for the popularity it has 
obtained. The poem is in blank verse ; and is nearly as long as 
the " Paradise Lost." Its aspect is, therefore, uninviting ; yet that 
it has been extensively read cannot be doubted,— several editions 
having from time to time appeared. If we may not describe the 
author as of a sickly mind, we perceive abundant proof that he 
was of a diseased constitution. He arrays religion in dark robes, 



336 P L L K. 

and considers it unnecessary to portray her features as both gentle 
and beautiful. " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her 
paths are peace," The Poet, however, exerts himself to show how 
rugged he can render the one, and how gloomy he can make the 
other. His volume, from beginning to end, is an awful picture of 
wrath and vengeance ; it contains little to cheer, and nothing to 
gladden ; and would tempt the reader to imagine that man was 
created only to be tormented. 

Such is unhappily too much the mode with Poets who occupy 
themselves with the treatment of sacred subjects. Instead of 
striving to direct and control, they labour either to subdue or crush 
the natural sensations and desires of man. They, therefore, clip 
the wings of their own fancy : and, if they soar, it is with the pain- 
ful flutter of a wounded bird. Religious poetry is, for the most 
part, prejudicial to the cause it professes to advocate. It may 
influence the head; but it rarely touches the heart. Men are 
drawn from low thoughts and vicious habits, far less by fear than 
persuasion. If Religion be in " gorgon terrors clad," and "circled 
with a vengeful band," the effect produced must be unnatural and 
transitory. The Poets, therefore, Avho so introduce, never recom- 
mend it. Such a course is to be deprecated the more, because the 
very opposite is so accessible. The best auxiliaries to piety are 
abundant throughout Nature ; the themes that most readily present 
themselves to the Poet are those which, by the surest and safest 
way, lead the heart to virtue, — and they are all graceful, and beau- 
tiful, and cheerful. There are, undoubtedly, many glorious excep- 
tions to the rule we have ventured to lay down : but we believe 
they are not to be found among writers who have exclusively de- 
voted themselves to the treatment of Religion, in verse. Religion, 
therefore, is deprived of one of its most powerful and effective 
advocates. It is made most influential, indeed, by those who are 
indirectly its supporters — who describe natural objects, and excite 
love as well as veneration, by leading the mind through Nature up 
to Nature's God; — " the meanest flower that blows" has been made 
to teach a lesson ; and he best instructs the reason, and directs the 
heart, who finds 

" Good in every thing." 



POLLOK. 

MATERNAL LOVE. FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME." 

Hail, holy love ! thou word that sums all bliss, 
Gives and receives all bliss,— fullest when most 
Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity. 
Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink ! 



Eternal, ever-growing, happy love ! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fulfilling every law: 
Entirely blest, because thou seek'st no more, 
Hopest not, nor fear'st ; but on the present livest, 
And hold'st perfection smiling in thy arms. 



THE RESURRECTION. 

And now, descending from the bowers of Heaven, 
Soft airs o'er all the earth, spreading, were heard, 
And hallelujahs sweet, the harmony 
Of righteous souls that came to re-possess 
Their long-neglected bodies ; and, anon. 
Upon the ear fell horribly the sound 
Of cursing, and the yells of damned despair, 
Uttered by felon spirits that the trump 
Had summoned from the burning glooms of hell, 
To put their bodies on, reserved for wo. 
29 



338 P L L K. 

Now, starting up among the living changed, 
Appeared innumerous the risen dead. 
Each particle of dust was claimed : the turf. 
For ages trod beneath the careless foot 
Of men, rose, organized in human form; 
The monumental stones were rolled away ; 
The doors of death were opened ; and in the dark 
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel house. 
Moving, were heard the mouldered bones that sought 
Their proper place. Instinctive, every soul 
Flew to its clayey part : from grass-grown mould, 
The nameless spirit took its ashes up, 
Reanimate ; and, merging from beneath 
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose 
The great, nor heeded once the lavish rhyme. 
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain. 
The Memphian mummy, that from age to age, 
Descending, bought and sold a thousand times. 
In hall of curious antiquary stowed. 
Wrapped in mysterious weeds, the wondrous theme 
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags ; 
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside 
The European, his last purchaser. 
In vale remote, the hermit rose, surprised 
At crowds that rose around him, where he thought 
His slumbers had been single ; and the bard, 
. Who fondly covenanted with his friend. 
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough 
Of some old lonely tree, rising, was pressed 
By multitudes that claimed their proper dust 
From the same spot ; and he, that richly hearsed, 
With gloomy garniture of purchased wo. 
Embalmed, in princely sepulchre was laid. 
Apart from vulgar men, built nicely round 



P L L K. 839 

And round by the proud heir, who blushed to think 
His father's lordly clay should ever mix 
With peasa-nt dust, — saw by his side, awake, 
The clown that long had slumbered in his arms. 

The family tomb, to whose devouring mouth 
Descended sire and son, age atler age, 
In long, unbroken, hereditary line. 
Poured forth, at once, the ancient father rude, 
And all his offspring of a thousand years. 
Refreshed from sweet repose, awoke the man 
Of charitable life, — awoke and sung : 
And from his prison house, slowly and sad, 
As if unsatisfied with holding near 
Communion with the earth, the miser drew 
His carcase forth, and knashed his teeth, and howled, 
Unsolaced by his gold and silver then. 
From simple stone in lonely wilderness, 
That hoary lay, o'erletter'd by the hand 
Of oft-frequenting pilgrim, who had taught 
The willow-tree to weep, at morn and even, 
Over the sacred spot, — the martyr saint, 
To song of seraph harp, triumphant rose. 
Well pleased that he had suffered to the death. 
" The cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces," 
As sung the bard by Nature's hand anointed. 
In whose capacious giant numbers rolled 
The passions of old Time, fell lumbering down. 
All cities fell, and every work of man, 
And gave their portion forth of human dust, — 
Touched by the mortal finger of decay. 
Tree, herb, and flower, and every fowl of heaven, 
And fish, and animal — the wild and tame — 
Forthwith dissolving, crumbled into dust. 



340 P L L K. 

Athens, and Rome, and Babylon, and Tyre, 
And she that sat on Thames, queen of the seas, — 
Cities once famed on earth, convulsed through all 
Their mighty ruins, threw their millions forth. 
Palmyra's dead, where desolation sat 
From age to age, well pleased in solitude, 
And silence, — save when traveller's foot, or owl 
Of night, or fragment mouldering down to dust, 
Broke faintly on his desert ear, — awoke. 
And Salem, holy city, where the Prince 
Of Life, by death, a second life secured 
To man, and with him from the grave, redeemed, 
A chosen number brought, to retinue 
His great ascent on high, and gave sure pledge 
That death was foiled, — her generations, now, 
Gave up, of kings, and priests, and Pharisees : 
Nor even the Sadducee, who fondly said. 
No morn of resurrection e'er should come. 
Could sit the summons ; to his ear did reach 
The trumpet's voice, and ill prepared for what 
He oft had proved should never be, he rose 
Reluctantly, and on his face began 
To burn eternal shame. The cities, too, 
Of old, ensepulchred beneath the flood, 
Or deeply slumbering under mountains huge. 
That earthquake — servant of the wrath of God — 
Had on their wicked population thrown ; 
And marts of busy trade, ong ploughed and sown 
By history unrecorded, or the song 
Of bard — yet not forgotten their wickedness. 
In heaven — poured forth their ancient multitudes, 
That vainly wished their sleep had never broke. 
From battle fields, where men by millions met 
To murder each his fellow, and make sport 



POLLOK. 341 

To kings and heroes — things long since forgot — 

Innumerous armies rose, unbanner'd all, 

Unpanoplied, impraised ; nor found a prince, 

Or general, then, to answer for their crimes. 

The hero's slaves, and all the scarlet troops 

Of antichrist, and all that fought for rule, — 

Many high-sounding names, familiar once 

On earth, and praised exceedingly, but now 

Familiar most in hell, their dungeon fit, 

Where they may war eternally with God's 

Almighty thunderbolts, and win them pangs 

Of keener wo, — saw, as they sprung to life, 

The widow and the orphan, ready stand, 

And helpless virgin, ravished in their sport, 

To plead against them at the coming doom. 

The Roman legions, boasting once, how loud. 

Of liberty, and fighting bravely o'er 

The torrid and the frigid zone, the sands 

Of burning Egypt, and the frozen hills 

Of snowy Albion, to make mankind 

Their thralls — untaught, that he who made or kept 

A slave, could ne'er himself be truly free — 

That morning gathered up their dust, which lay 

Wide scattered over half the globe ; nor saw 

Their eagled banners then. Sennacherib's hosts, 

Embattled once against the sons of God, 

With insult bold, quick as the noise of mirth 

And revelry, sunk in their drunken camp. 

When death's dark angel, at the dead of night, 

Their vitals touched, and made each pulse stand still, 

Awoke in sorrow ; and the multitudes 

Of Gog, and all the fated crew that warred 

Against the chosen saints, in the last days. 

At Armageddon, when the Lord came down. 



342 P L L K. 

Mustering" his host on Israel's holy hills, 
And, from the treasures of his snow and hail, 
Rained terror, and confusion rained, and death, 
And ga\ e to all the beasts and fowls of heaven, 
Of captains' flesh and blood of men of war, 
A feast of many days, revived, and, doomed 
To second death, stood in Hamonah's vale. 

Nor yet did all that fell in battle rise, 
That day, to wailing-. Here and there were seen 
The patriot bands, that from his guilty throne 
The despot tore, unshackled nations, made 
The prince respect the people's laws, drove back 
The wave of proud invasion, and rebuked 
The frantic fury of the multitude, 
Rebelled, and fought and fell for liberty 
Right understood, true heroes in the speech 
Of heaven, where words express the thoughts of him 
Who speaks ; not undistinguished these, though few, 

That morn arose, with joy and melody. 

******* 



HOOD. 343 

Thomas Hood was bom in the Poultry, London, 1798. His father 
was a native of Scotland, and, for many years, acting partner in 
the nrm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharp, extensive Booksellers and 
Publishers. Thomas Hood was in his childhood remarkable for 
great vivacity of spirits ; and at a very early age gave tokens of 
the genius for which he has since been distinguished. When a 
boy, our informant states, " he was continually making shrewd 
and pointed remarks upon topics of which he was presumed to 
know nothing." He finished his education at Mr. Wanostrocht's 
academy, Camberwell ; and on leaving school, his health being 
precarious, he was recommended to try the effect of a sea voyage 
on his constitution. The sea, however, appears to have had no 
attractions for the future Poet : in one of the pleasantest of his 
poems he sums up all the annoyances to which those who are " far 
from the land" are invariably subjected : — 

" All tlie sea dangers, 
Buccaneers, rangers. 
Pirates and Sallee-men, 
Algeriiie galleymen. 
Tornadoes and Typhons, 
And horrible Syphons," 
&c. &c. &c. 

Mr. Hood subsequently resided for a considerable period with his 
relatives in Dundee; and on his return to London, having manifested 
a taste for drawing, and expressed a desire to pursue the art of 
engraving, he was articled to his uncle, Mr. Robert Sands, with a 
view to acquire a knowledge of the profession. He passed two 
years sketching with the pencil, now and then taking up the 
graver, but chiefly composing poetry : his compositions found their 
way into the " London Magazine," and at once attracted attention. 
A path to fame was speedily marked out for him ; and he has taken 
his station as one of the most original and agreeable writers of the 
day. 

The countenance of Mr. Hood is more solemn than merry : 
there is nothing in his appearance to indicate that wit and humour 
for which he is so eminent. He is by no means brilliant in con- 
versation ; but seems as if continually taking in the matter which 
he gives out sparingly in general society. We believe, indeed, 



344 



HOOD. 



that his mind is serious rather than comic ; that the poems which 
have made so many laugh, are the produce of deep thought and 
study, and by no means the outbreaks of natural humour. We 
think we perceive this even in his merriest strains : few of them 
are without a touch of melancholy ; and the topics he selects as 
fittest for him, are usually of a grave and sombre cast. We have 
never known liim laugh iiearlily, either in company or in rhyme. 
It is highly to his credit, that with so much power in dealing with 
the burlesque, J)e has never indulged in personal satire : we look 
in vain through his books for a single passage that can give pain 
to any living person ; neither does he ever verge upon indelicacy, 
or treat with lightness or indifference sacred subjects. Perhaps it 
is impossible to find a greater contrast than that which is pre- 
sented by the writings of Thomas Hood, and Peter Pindar. The 
one cannot be facetious without exhibiting venom ; — the other, in 
his most playful moments, is never either ill-tempered or envious. 
Indeed, kindhness, benevolence, and generosity are the characteris- 
tics even of Mr. Hood's " satirical" productions. 

It is, however, less to the humorous than to the serious composi- 
tions of Thomas Hood that we desire to direct the reader's atten- 
tion. His name is so completely linked with "joking," that few 
are at all aware of his exquisite talent for pure and genuine poetry. 
While his " Whims and Oddities" have passed through many 
editions, his " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" has never reached 
a second ; and while his " Comic Annuals" have brought him a 
large income, his delicious Lyrics have scarcely yielded sufficient 
to pay the printer. We refer to the few extracts we have selected, 
for proof that Mr. Hood has claims to a far higher and more envia- 
ble reputation than that which his " puns" liave conferred upon 
him. More tender, more graceful, or more beautifully wrought 
lyrics are scarcely to be found in the language. They " smack of 
the old Poets ;" they have all the truth and nature for which the 
great Bards are pre-eminent : and while Mr. Hood has caught 
their spirit, he has not fallen into the error that has proved fatal 
to many of his contemporaries, a mistaken notion that by copying 
the slips and blots which occasionally mar the delicate beauty of 
their writings, he was imitating their style and character. 



HOOD. 

TO A COLD BEAUTY. 

Lady, would'st thou heiress be 
To winter's cold and cruel part 1 

When he sets the rivers free, 

Thou dost still lock up thy heart : 

Thou that should'st outlast the snow, 

But in the whiteness of thy brow ? 

Scorn and cold neglect are made 
For winter gloom and winter wind ; 

But thou wilt wrong the summer air, 
Breathing it to words unkind : 

Breath which only should belong 

To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 

When the little buds unclose, 

Red, and white, and pied, and blue ; 

And that virgin flower, the rose, 
Opes JAer heart to hold the dew, — 

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 

With no jewel in its cup] 

Let not cold December sit 

Thus in love's peculiar throne ; 

Brooklets are not prison'd now, 
But crystal frosts are all agone ; 

And that which hangs upon the spray, 

It is no snow, but flower of May ! 



346 



HOOD. 



RUTH. 



She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush. 
Deeply ripened :— such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long lashes veil'd a light, 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim. 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks 
Praising God with sweetest looks : — 

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean. 
Where I reap thou should'st but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 

BALLAD. 

She's up and gone, the graceless girl ! 

And robb'd my failing years ; 
My blood before was thin and cold. 

But now 'tis turn'd to tears : 



347 



My shadow falls upon my grave, 

So near the brink I stand ; 
She might have stayed a little yet, 

And led me by the hand ! 

Ay, call her on the barren moor, 

And call her on the hill ; 
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry, 

And plovers answer shrill : 
My child is flown on wilder wings 

Than they have ever spread : 
And I may even walk a waste 

That widen'd when she fled. 

Full many a thankless child has been,- — 

But never one like mine ; 
Her meat was served on plates of gold. 

Her drink was rosy wine : 
But now she'll share the robin's food, 

And sup the common rill, 
Before her feet will turn again 

To meet her father's will ! 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I REMEMBER, I remember. 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn : 
He never came a wink too soon. 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 



348 



HOOD. 

I remember, I remember, 

The roses — red and white ; 
The violets and the lily-cups. 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set, 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember. 

Where I was used to swing ; 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing : 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember. 

The fir trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heav'n 

Than when I was a boy. 



Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 
In summer time, and sigh, " O rus !" 
Of London pleasures sick : 



HOOD. 

My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades, — my eyes detest 
This endless meal of brick ! 

What joy have I in June's return 1 
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn ; 

I scent no flowery gust : 
But faint the flagging zephyr springs, 
With dry Macadam on its wings, 

And turns me " dust to dust." 

My sun his daily course renews 
Due east, but with no eastern dews ; 

The path is dry and hot ! 
His setting shows more tamely still, 
He sinks behind no purple hill. 

But down a chimney's pot ! 

Oh ! but to hear the milk-maid blithe. 
Or early mower whet his scythe 

The dewy meads among ! 
My grass is of that sort, — alas ! 
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass 

By folks of vulgar tongue ! 

Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet ! 
I think of cowslip-cups,— but meet 

With very vile rebuff's ! 
For meadow buds, I get a whiff" 
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff" 

The turtle made at Cuff"'s. 

How tenderly Rousseau review'd 
His periwinkles ! mine are strew'd ! 
30 



349 



350 



My rose blooms on a gown ! 
I hunt in vain for eglantine, 
And find my blue-bell on the sign 

That marks the Bell and Crown ! 

Where are ye, birds ! that blithely wing 
From tree to tree, and gaily sing 

Or mourn in thickets deep 1 
My cuckoo has some ware to sell, 
The watchmen is my Philomel, 

My blackbird is a sweep ! 

Where are ye, linnet ! lark ! and thrush ! 
That perch on leafy bough and bush, 

And tune the various song 1 
Two hurdy-gurdist, and a poor 
Street-Handel grinding at my door. 

Are all my " tuneful throng." 

Where are ye, early-purling streams. 
Whose waves reflect the morning beams, 

And colours of the skies '? 
My rills are only puddle-drains 
From shambles, or reflect the stains 

Of calimanco-dyes. 

Sweet are the little brooks that run 
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun. 

Singing in soothing tones : 
Not thus the city streamlets flow ; 
They make no music as they go, 

Though never " off the stones." 



351 



Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, 
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap 

Beside your woolly dams ] 
Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, 
My Corydons use iron hooks, 

And skin — not shear — the lambs. 

The pipe whereon, in olden day, 
Th' Arcadian herdsmen us'd to play 

Sweetly, here soundeth not ; 
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes, 
Meanwhile the city boor consumes 

The rank weed — " piping hot." 

All rural things are vilely mock'd, 
On every hand the sense is shock'd 

With objects hard to bear : 
Shades — vernal shades ! where wine is sold ! 
And for a turfy bank, behold 

An Ingram's rustic chair ! 

Where are ye, London meads and bow'rs, 
And gardens redolent of flow'rs 

Wherein the zephyr wons 1 
Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more ! 
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er ; 

And that bare wood, — St. John's. 

No pastoral scene procures me peace ; 
I hold no leasowes in my lease, 

No cot set round with trees : 
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; 
And omnium furnishes my banks 

With brokers, not with bees. 



352 



Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 
In summer time, and sigh, " O rus !" 

Of city pleasures sick : 
My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades, — my eyes detest 

This endless meal of brick. 



BALLAD. 

It was not in the winter 

Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 

That churlish season never frowned 

On early lovers yet ! 
Oh no, — the world was newly crowned 

With flowers, when first we met. 

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 

What else could peer my glowing cheek 

That tears began to stud ? 
And when I asked the like of love, 

You snatched a damask bud ; — 

And oped it to the dainty core, 

Still glowing to the last ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 



D I B D I N. 35S 

Charles Dibdin, the son of a silversmith, at Southampton, was 
born in that town, in the year 1745. At an early age he ventured 
to try liis fortune in the metropolis, where he at once set himself to 
compose songs and ballads ; but was occupied chiefly in tuning 
piano-fortes. In 1762, he made his debut as an actor at the Rich- 
mond theatre ; and two years afterwards appeared on the London 
boards, as Ralph, in the " Maid of the Mill." He soon began to 
write for the stage ; and, it is said, produced above one hundred 
dramas, of various degrees of merit. The " Deserter," brought 
out in 1772; the "Waterman," in 1774; and the "Quaker," in 
1775, are still occasionally performed. Dibdin, however, did not 
like his profession ; and took the earliest opportunity of quitting it. 
He opened a kind of theatre, in Leicester Square, to which he gave 
the title of " Sans Souci ;" and had evening entertainments, at 
which he sung his own songs, and accompanied himself on the 
piano: — this simple design was amazingly successful. He is said 
to have written from time, to time, during the period of the per- 
formances, above twelve hundred songs — to nearly all of which he 
composed the music. He died in indigent circumstances, in 1814. 
In 1803, a pension of X200 a year was granted to Charles 
Dibdin : after enjoying it for three years, a new administration, 
in order to display the economical principles upon which it de- 
signed to manage Great Britain, thought proper to deprive the 
aged vocalist of this resource. Other branches of his family have 
displayed talents of no common order ; and have, we believe, also 
had to encounter adversity. As yet, we have manifested no desire 
to repay any portion of the large debt which is owing to him from 
a nation. The country has been recently called upon to grant 
annuities to professors of literature, whose claims are not half so 
urgent, or so just. We may hope that some part of the debt to 
Charles Dibdin will yet be discharged. In estimating his merit 
as a nautical song writer, we should not confine it to the mere 
gratification derived by the sailors themselves from singing his 
songs : we find in the sentiments expressive of the character of 
seamen, so much kindliness of feeling, and a total absence of sel- 
fishness and worldly wisdom, that has tended in no small degree 
to raise sailors in the esteem of the country, and to render the 
maritime profession popular. This consideration, during a period 
30* 



354 D I B D I N. 

of protracted naval war, is essential, in order to arrive at a due 
estimate of the services conferred by Dibdin upon the State. 

A sound critic, Mr. Hogarth, states that " Dibdin had hardly 
received any musical education ; and his attainments in the art 
were so small, that he had not skill enough to put a good accom- 
paniment to his own airs. But he possessed a gift which no edu- 
cation or study can bestow, — an inexhaustible vein of melody." 
Among the hundreds of airs which he composed, it is wonderful 
to observe how few are bad, or even indifferent; and how free they 
are from sameness and repetition : and yet, with all this variety, 
there is no straining after novelty. The airs flow so naturally, 
that they appear to have cost him no sort of effort. In their ex- 
pression, too, they are not less various than in their phrases. Whe- 
ther the poetry is tender, lively, or energetic, the music never fails 
to speak a corresponding language. 

If we try the poetry of Dibdin by a severe standard, it will un- 
doubtedly be found wanting ; but if it be a triumph of genius to 
achieve completely the object desired, we must allot a high sta- 
tion to the most popular song-writer of the age. It is scarcely 
an exaggeration to say, that " a nation's ballads" have greater in- 
fluence on its people than " a nation's laws ;" and it may be safely 
asserted, that the co-operation of Charles Dibdin has been largely 
effective in giving truth to the line, 

" Britannia rules the waves." 
His songs come home to the uneducated minds of seamen : 
they are simple in language, and homely in construction. Refined 
and embellished, their effect would be lost. That they have had a 
prodigious — almost a universal — influence over our mariners, is 
certain : it has been as salutary as it is powerful. They teach 
that while courage is a noble quality, it is elevated into a virtue 
when exerted for our country ; and that something more than 
brute force is necessary to make a good sailor. They not only 
inculcate bravery in battle, but patience under less exciting perils ; 
and describe discipline and subordination as leading duties. They 
have been quoted with effect to suppress mutiny ; they have, in- 
deed, contributed largely to strengthen the great bulwarks of Bri- 
tain — her "wooden walls" — to raise the character of her best 
defender — " the British tar" — and to establish that which is a sub- 
stance, and not a sound — " British glory !" 



DIBDIN. 

I SAILED FROM THE DOWNS. 

I SAILED from the Downs in the Nancy, 

My jib how she smack'd through the breeze : 
She's a vessel as tight, to my fancy, 

As ever sail'd on the salt seas. 
So, adieu ! to the white cliffs of Britain, 

Our girls, and our dear native shore ; 
For if some hard rock we should split on, 

We shall never see them any more. 
But sailors were born for all weathers, 

Great guns let it blow high, blow low, 
Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 

And where the gale drives we must g"o. 

When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar, 

I verily thought she'd have sunk ; 
For the wind so began for to alter, 

She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk. 
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, — 

Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries ; 
Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers, 

As through the rude tempest she flies. 

The storm came on thicker and faster, 
As black just as pitch was the sky ; 

When truly a doleful disaster 
Befell three poor sailors and I : 



356 



Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, 
By a blast that came furious and hard, 

Just while we were furling- the mainsail, 
Were every soul swept from the yard. 

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried Peccavi ; 

As for I, at the risk of my neck. 
While they sunk down in peace to old Davy, 

Caught a rope and so landed on deck : 
Well, what would you have 7 we were stranded, 

And out of a fine jolly crew 
Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed 

But I, and I think twenty-two. 

After thus we at sea had miscarried, 

Another guess-way sat the wind ; 
For to England I came and got married. 

To a lass that was comely and kind : 
But whether for joy or vexation. 

We know not for what we were born ; 
Perhaps I may find a kind station, 

Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn. 
For sailors were born for all weathers. 

Great guns let it blow high, blow low. 
Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 

And where the gale drives we must go. 



TOM BOWLING. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For death has broachM him to. 



D I B D I N. 

His form was of the manliest beauty, 

His iieart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful below he did his duty, 

And now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed. 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many, and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair. 

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly. 

Ah ! many's the time and oft ; 
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy. 

For Tom is gone alofl. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 

When He who all commands 
Shall give, to call life's crew together. 

The word to pipe all hands. 

Thus death, who kings and tars despatches. 

In vain Tom's life has doff 'd ; 
For though his body's under hatches, 

His soul is gone alofl. 



LOVELY NAN. 

Sweet is the ship that under sail 
Spreads her bosom to the gale : 

Sweet, oh ! sweet's the flowing can ; 
Sweet to poise the labouring oar. 
That tugs us to our native shore, 

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man : 



357 



358 D I B D I N. 

Sweet sailing" with a fav'rite breeze ; 
But, oh ! much sweeter than all these, 
Is Jack's delight, — his lovely Nan. 

The needle, faithful to the north, 
To show of constancy the worth, 

A curious lesson teaches man ; 
The needle, time may rust, — a squall 
Capsize the binnacle and all, 

Let seamanship do all it can : 
My love in worth shall higher rise, — 
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize 

My faith and truth to lovely Nan. 

When in the bilboes I was penn'd, 
For serving- of a worthless friend. 

And ev'ry creature from me ran ; 
No ship, performing quarantine. 
Was ever so deserted seen : 

None hailed me, — woman, child, nor man : 
But though false friendship's sails were furl'd, 
Though cut adrift by all the world, 

I'd all the world in lovely Nan. 

I love my duty, love my friend, 
Love truth and merit to defend, — 

To mourn their loss who hazard ran ; 
I love to take an honest part. 
Love beauty and a spotless heart, — 

By manners love to show the man : 
To sail through life by honour's breeze, 
'Twas all along of loving- these 

First made me doat on lovely Nan. 



DIBDIN. 359 



BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. 



Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 

The mainmast by the board ; 
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, 

And love well stor'd, 

Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, 

The roaring winds, the raging sea, 

In hopes on shore, 

To be once more 

Safe moor'd with thee. 

Aloft, while mountains high we go. 

The whistling winds that scud along, 
And the surge roaring from below, 
Shall my signal be 
To think on thee. 
And this shall be my song, — 

Blow high, blow low, &c. 

And on that night, when all the crew 

The mem'ry of their former lives 
O'er flowing cans of flip renew, 
And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee ; 
And as the ship rolls through the sea, 
The burthen of my song shall be,— 
Blow high, blow low, &c. 



360 D I B D I N. 



BOLD JACK. 



While up the shrouds the sailor goes, 

Or ventures on the yard ; 
The landsman, who no better knows, 

Believes his lot is hard. 
Bold Jack, with smiles, each danger meets, 

Casts anchor, heaves the log, 
Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, 

And drinks his can of grog. 

When mountains high the waves that swell 

The vessel rudely bear. 
Now sinking in a hollow dell,— 

Now quivering in the air : 

Bold Jack, with smiles, &lc. 

When waves 'gainst rocks and quicksands roar. 

You ne'er hear him repine ; 
Freezing near Greenland's icy shore. 

Or burning near the line : 

Bold Jack, with smiles, &c. 

If to engage they give the word, 

To quarters all repair ; 
While splinter'd masts go by the board. 

And shot sing through the air : 

Bold Jack, with smiles, &c. 



B A I L L I E. 361 

Joanna Baillie is a native of Scotland, and of noble Scottish 
descent ; but the greater part of her life has been spent in London. 
She resides at Hampstead ; and has remained unmarried. No 
living writer has received from contemporaries higher tokens of 
admiration and respect ; and her genius has been largely and 
generally appreciated by the public. As a lyric Poet, she cannot 
be said to occupy a prominent station ; but she has achieved that 
which must be considered the loftiest effort of the mind : — her 
" Tragedies" will be classed among the most admirable in the 
English language. Mr. Hazlitt, in some MS. notes upon the pro- 
ductions of Miss Baillie, of which we shall make liberal use, ob- 
jects to her "Plays of the Passions," on the ground that they have 
not been acted, and may not be acted : " they are only," he adds, 
" chef-d'oeuvres for the closet." They are elegant, classical, stately, 
with occasional touches (and some of them fine ones) of nature 
and passion ; but her tragedy, with every advantage of taste and 
study, has the port and flexure of female genius. She has not 
UNSEXED the Muse I There is excessive decorum, refinement, skill: 
we have a graceful and expanded commentary on nature ; not the 
naked, unadorned, and rugged text itself. The bosom is seldom 
probed, the brain rarely maddened. There is so much methodical 
preparation for the catastrophe, with so many softening grada- 
tions interposed, " so much temperance assumed to give smooth- 
ness," to the effect, that we scarce feel the struggle when it comes; 
there is so much good sense, and calm reflection, and elegant 
declamation put into the mouths of the speakers, that passion is 
swallowed up in sentiment, and we begin to be as philosophical as 
themselves : instead of the lightning and the dread thunderstroke 
issuing from the dark cloud, we perceive only a soft, glittering 
vapour of words ; and are, as it were, suspended on the edge of a 
precipice, instead of being hurled down it, — in a word, tragedy 
here utters chiefly muffled sounds, has her agonized features thinly 
but gracefully veiled, and, for the bleeding wounds and mangled 
fibres of the heart, we are shown the learned prescriptions and 
gauze bandages that have been applied with a skilful and tender 
hand to assuage and heal them. The authoress of a " Series of 
Plays," assumes the part of a charitable or guardian angel, that 
foresees disasters, suggests reflections, and proposes remedies, — 
31 



362 B A I L L I E. 

not that of the destroying demon, that tears off every disguise of 
evil, cuts off hope, drives passion to frenzy, and makes this world 
a hell, from which there is no resource but in the silent grave. 
Her style is a little effeminate; her plan is somewhat pedantic. 
When you expect her to touch the goal of perfection (and she is 
frequently near it,) she suddenly falters, and turns aside from want 
of resolution to seize the golden prize ; some trifling scruple im- 
pedes her course — some idle ornament diverts her attention ; she 
expands a simple interjection into a lecture, or tacks a system to a 
common incident, till, between the grandeur of the design and the 
littleness of the means, she almost unavoidably fails of natural and 
striking effect. ' Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, 
or, rather, woman its pretty self,' may be said to ruin the tragic 
Poet. So far from precipitating the tide of passion, and letting it 
boil and rage in the troubled gulf below, she dallies, she tampers 
with it, tries to keep it back, and make it play in gentle eddies, or 
strains it through artificial sluices to form fairy cascades and 
jets d'eaux, to display the rainbow hues of fancy, or drains it to 
overflow the neighbouring plains and fertilize the fields of reflec- 
tion. This is but natural. Women in their writings are beset 
with doubts, and hampered with difficulties, and dare not take a 
decisive step, any more than in real life. Neither are women 
taught to give way to, or express, their passions, but to do all they 
can to suppress and conceal them. A tragic author must speak 
out; — a woman is sworn to secrecy and .silence. Action and pas- 
sion (both of them forbidden ground) being then the chief ingre- 
dients of tragedy, a female author in attempting it must be hard 
beset. Nay, farther, women are generally taught not only not to 
harbour or give utterance to the fiercer passions in their own 
breasts, but not to witness the outward signs of them, or sympa- 
thize with their inward workings in others. They turn from the 
subject with shrinking sensitiveness, and consider whatever shocks 
their delicacy as a crime. This reserve and caution is an excel- 
lent discipline of manners and virtue, — but a bad school for imagi- 
nation and passion. Is it to be wondered at that we find in these 
plays, by one inured from her childhood to the severest lessons of 
prudence and propriety, instances of refinement verging on imbe- 
cility, and of casuistry substituted for the unvarnished truth of 
nature ? 



BAILLIE. 



TO A CHILD. 



Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 

And curly pate, and merry eye, 
And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 

And soft and fair, thou urchin sly 1 

What boots it, who, with sweet caresses. 
First called thee his, or squire or hind 1 

For thou in every wight that passes. 
Dost now a friendly playmate find. 

Thy downcast glances,— grave, but cunning. 

As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; 
Thy shyness swiftly from me running, — 

'Tis infantine coquetry all ! 

But far a-field thou hast not flown. 

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, — 

Of right good will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh, and wrestle too, 
A mimic warfare with me waging ! 

To make, as wily lovers do. 
Thy after kindness more engaging ! 



364 B A I L L I E. 

The wilding rose — sweet as thyself— 
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ; 

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, 
To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look. 

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, 

When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. 

Well, let it be ! Through weal and wo, 
Thou know'st not now thy future range ; 

Life is a motley shifting show, — 
And thou a thing of hope and change. 



THE KITTEN. 

Wanton drole, whose harmless play 
Beguiles the rustic's closing day, 
When drawn the evening fire about. 
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, 
And child upon his three-foot stool. 
Waiting till his supper cool ; 
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose. 
As bright the blazing faggot glows, 
Who, bending to the friendly light, 
Plies her task with busy sleight : 
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces 
Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coiled, and crouching low, 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. 
The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 



BAILLIE. 365 

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 

Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 

Then,, onward stealing, fiercely spring 

Upon the futile, faithless thing. 

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, 

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 

As oft beyond thy curving side 

Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 

Till, from thy centre starting far. 

Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air, 

Erected stiff, and gait awry, 

Like Madam in her tantrums high ; 

Though ne'er a Madam of them all. 

Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall. 

More varied trick and whim displays, 

To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 

Doth power in measured verses dwell. 

All thy vagaries wild to tell 1 

Ah no ! the start, the jet, the bound. 

The giddy scamper round and round, 

With leap, and jerk, and high curvet. 

And many a whirling somerset, 

(Permitted be the modern Muse 

Expression technical to use,) 

These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill. 

But poor in art, though rich in will. 

The nimblest tumbler, s^age-bedight. 
To thee is but a clumsy wight. 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains. 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requites him oft with plaudits loud. 
But, stopped the while thy wanton play, 
Applauses too, thy feats repay : 
31* 



BAILLIE. 

For then, beneath some urchin's hand, 
With modest pride thou takest thy stand, 
While many a stroke of fondness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides ; 
Dilated swells thy glossy fur, 
And loudly sings thy busy pur, — 
As, timing well the equal sound, 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground. 
And all their harmless claws disclose. 
Like prickles of an early rose ; 
While softly from thy whiskered cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire. 
Do rustics rude thy tricks admire ; 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore. 
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly 
Through airy heights of poesy, 
Pausing, smiles, with altered air. 
To see thee climb his elbow chair ; 
Or, struggling on the mat below. 
Hold warfare with his slippered toe. 
The widowed dame, or lonely maid, 
Who in the still, but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial, spends her age, 
And rarely turns a lettered page ; 
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork, or paper ball ; 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravelled skein to catch, — 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her sober skill. 
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
In lonely tower or prison pent, 



BAILLIE. 367 

Reviews the wit of former days, 
And loathes the world and all its ways ; 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream, 
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, 
His heart with pride less fiercely beat, 
And smiles a link in thee to find. 
That joins him still to living kind. 

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus 1 
Is it, that in thy glaring eye 
And rapid movements, we descry. 
While w^e at ease, secure from ill. 
The chimney-corner snugly fill, 
A lion, darting on the prey 1 
A tiger, at his ruthless play 1 
Or, is it, that in thee we trace, 
With all thy varied wanton grace, 
An emblem, viewed with kindred eye, 
Of tricksy, restless infancy 1 
Ah ! many a lightly-sportive child. 
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, 
To dull and sober manhood grown, 
With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
Even so, poor Kit ! must thou endure, 
When thou becomest a cat demure. 
Full many a cuff and angry word. 
Chid roughly from the tempting board. 
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 
So ofl our favoured playmate been. 
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. 
When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; 
Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, 
A comely, careful, mousing cat, — 



B A I L L I E. 

Whose dish is, for the public good, 
Replenished oft with savoury food. 

Nor, when thy span of life be past. 
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast ; 
But gently borne on good man's spade, 
Beneath the decent sod be laid ; 
And children show, with glistening eyes, 
The place where poor old Pussy lies. 



WELCOME BAT AND OWLET GRAY. 

O WELCOME bat and owlet gray. 
Thus winging lone your airy way ; 
And welcome moth and drowsy fly, 
That to mine ear come humming by ; 
And welcome shadows long and deep, 
And stars that from the pale sky peep ! 
O welcome all ! to me ye say. 
My woodland love is on her way. 

Upon the soft wind floats her hair, 
Her breath is in the dewy air, 
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound 
That steals along the stilly ground, 
O dawn of day, in rosy bower, 
What art thou in this witching hour ! 
O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 
What art thou to the fall of night 1 



TENNYSON. i5b\) 

Alfred Tennyson is, we understand, the son of a clergyman re- 
siding in Lincolnshire : he was educated at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, where he took his degree. He has a brother, Charles, who 
has published a Volume of graceful and beautiful " Sonnets ;" and 
another brother, Frederick, is said to possess considerable poetical 
powers. Their two sisters, also, are, we are told, distinguished by 
rare abilities. Their home is likened by a correspondent to " a 
nest of nightingales." Mr. Hunt, who has favoured us with some 
remarks upon the poetry of Alfred Tennyson, states, that " he is 
of the school of Keats ; that is to say, it is difficult not to see that 
Keats has been a great deal in his thoughts ; and that he delights 
in the same brooding over his sensations — and the same melodious 
enjoyment of their expression. In his desire to communicate this 
music, he goes so far as to accent the final syllables in his partici- 
ples passive, — as pleached, crowned, purple-spiked, &c., — with 
visible printers' marks, which subjects him, but erroneously, to a 
charge of pedantry ; though it is a nicety not complimentary to 
the reader, and of which he may as well get rid. Much, however, 
as he reminds us of Keats, his genius is his own : he would have 
written poetry had his precursor written none ; and he has, also, 
a vein of metaphysical subtlety, in which the other did not in- 
dulge, as may be seen by his verses entitled, ' A Character,' those 
' On the Confessions of a Sensitive Mind,' and numerous others. 
He is, also, a great lover of a certain home kind of landscape, 
which he delights to paint with a minuteness that, in the ' Moated 
Grange,' becomes affecting, and, in the ' Miller's Daughter,' would 
remind us of the Dutch school if it were not mixed up with the 
same deep feeling, though varied with a pleasant joviality. Mr. 
Tennyson has yet given no such evidence of sustained and broad 
power as that of Hyperion,' nor even of such gentler narrative as 
the ' Eve of St. Agnes,' and the poems of Lamia,' and ' Isabella,' 
but the materials of the noblest poetry are abundant in him." 
Hitherto he has but tried the strength of his wings ; he is, no 
doubt, preparing for a more daring flight than he has yet ventured. 
There are, it is certain, many and glaring faults in his poems ; he 
seems, by his frequent repetitions of them, to consider as beauties 
things which are unquestionably blemishes. His veneration for 
the old Poets, and his love for those among his contemporaries who 



370 



TENNYSON. 



have based their style upon them, have led hhn to adopt the pue- 
rilities in vi^hich the age of Elizabeth was fertile : he frequently 
mistakes affectation for simplicity, and occasionally fancies that 
to be natural which borders upon burlesque. Thus, several of the 
most beautiful of his compositions are marred by some jarring 
word or conceit. In one of the sweetest of them all, — "the Miller's 
Daughter," and in one of the most exquisite stanzas of it, we find 
an example : — 

" Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms entwine; 
My other dearer life in life, 
Look through my very soul with thine. 
Untouched with any shade of years, 
May those kind eyes for ever dwell; 
They have not shed a many tears, 
Dear eyes ! since first I knew them well." 

Such faults are by no means rare among the poems of Mr. Tenny- 
son. We need, however, but refer to our extracts for proof that 
his beauties are striking and numerous ; and that a little more 
care would render them exquisitely perfect. We cannot but agree 
with Mr. Hunt, that " the materials of the noblest poetry are abun- 
dant in him ;" they will become useless if neglected. 

Mr. Tennyson has published two volumes ; and the last is not 
the best. Our extracts are, with but one exception, made from the 
former. It is to be regretted that the reputation which this work 
obtained for him did not induce him to write with a higher object 
than that of amusing and gratifying the reader, by a collection of 
brief and comparatively unimportant poems ; or that until he had 
succeeded in producing something more worthy of his genius, he 
did not abstain from appearing a second time before the public. 
The world will look with anxiety to the next ; it will decide the 
point which is still undecided — whether another great Poet is to 
be added to the long list which the present century has supplied 
to us, or whether the industry and energy of the author of '• Poems, 
chiefly Lyrical," are not equal to his delicacy and imagination. 
His compositions are, undoubtedly, brilliant and beautiful: their 
merit is sufficient to justify the praise he has received ; and it is 
only because he has afforded ample proof of his capacity to do 
better, that we lament he has not yet fulfilled the earliest promise 
of his genius. 



TENNYSON. 



BUONAPARTE. 



He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and bind with bands 
That island queen that sways the floods and lands 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke. 
When from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands. 
With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, 
Peal after peal, the British battle broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea, 
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught him ; late he learned humility, 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with briars. 



With blackest moss the flower plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all ; 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden wall. 

The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 
Unlifted was the clinking latch, 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 

Upon the lonely moated grange. 



372 TENNYSON. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 
He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, — 
I would that I were dead !" 

Her tears fell with the dews at even, 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven. 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 
When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
1 would that I were dead !" 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking, she heard the night fowl crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light ; 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change. 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

About a stone-cast from the wall, 
A sluice with blackened waters slept. 

And o'er it many, round and small. 
The clustered marishmosses crept. 



TENNYSON. 373 

Hard by a poplar shook ahvay, 

AIJ silver green with gnarled bark, 
For -leagues no other tree did dark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said 5 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up an' away. 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She^only said, "The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creaked ; 
The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked. 
Or from the crevice peered about. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 
32 



374 TENNYSON. 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick moted sunbeam lay- 
Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Down-sloped was westering in his bower. 
Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh, God, that I were dead !" 



THE MERMAN. 

Who would be 
A merman bold, 

Sitting alone. 

Singing alone 

Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold. 

On a throne ] 

I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, — 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower, 
And, holding them back by their flowing locks, 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kissed me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 



TENNYSON. 375 

And then we would wander away, away, 
To the pale green sea-groves straight and high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 

There would be neither moon nor star ; 

But the wave would make music above us far ; 

Low thunder and lig'ht in the magic night, — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other, and whoop and cry 

All night merrily, merrily : 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 

All night, merrily, merrily ; 

But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis, and agate, and almondine ; 
Then, leaping out upon them unseen, 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kissed me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! w^hat a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 



376 TENNYSON. 

Under the sea, 
In a golden curl, 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne 1 

I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I combed I would sing and say, 
" Who is it loves me ? who loves not me 1" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 

Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown. 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 

Springing alone. 

With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 

In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea, 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps. 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate, 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 
But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low flowing locks 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 

With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek 

On the broad seawolds i' the crimson shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and shriek. 



TENNYSON. 377 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap, 

From the diamond ledges that jut from the dells : 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who list, 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 
In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry me, 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 
In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea, 
Would curl round my silver feet silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 
All looking down for the love of me. 



LILIAN. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Claps her tiny hands above me. 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 

When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 

She, looking through and through me, 

Thoroughly to undo me. 
Smiling, never speaks : 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. 

From beneath her purfled wimple, 
32* 



378 TENNYSON. 

Glancing" with black-beaded eyes 
Till the lightning- laughters dimple 
The baby roses in her cheeks, 
Then away she flies. 

Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian ; 
Through my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson threaded lips 
Silver treble laughter trilleth ; 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 

Praying all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee. 

Fairy Lilian. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes ; 

When, turning round a casia, full in view, 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 

And talking to himself, first met his sight : 

" You must begone," said Death, " these walks are mine !' 

Love wept, and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 

Yet, ere he parted, said, " This hour is thine : 

Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 

Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 

So in the light of great eternity 

Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 

The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, — 

But I shall reign for ever over all." 



H W I T T. 379 

Mary Howitt was born at Golefovd, in Gloucestershire, where her 
parents were making a temporary residence ; but shortly after her 
birth they returned to their accustomed abode at Uttoxeter, in 
Staffordshire, where she spent her youth. The beautiful arcadian 
scenery of this part of Staffordshire was of a character to foster a 
deep love of the country ; and is described with great accuracy in 
her recent prose work, " Wood Leigliton." By her mother she is 
descended from an ancient Irish family, and also from Wood, the 
ill-used Irish patentee, who was ruined by the selfish malignity of 
Dean Swift, — from whose aspersions his character was vindicated 
by Sir Isaac Newton, A true statement of the whole affair may 
be seen in Ruding's " Annals of Coinage." Charles Wood, her 
grandfather, was the first who introduced platina into England 
from Jamaica, where he was assay-master. Her parents being 
strict members of the society of Friends, and her father being, in- 
deed, of an old line who suffered persecution in the early days of 
Quakerism, her education was of an exclusive character ; and her 
knowledg of books confined to those approved of by the most 
strict of her own people, till a later period than most young per- 
sons become acquainted with them. Their effect upon her mind 
was, consequently, so much the more vivid. Indeed, she describes 
her overwhelming astonishment and delight in the treasures of 
general and modern literature, to be like what Keats says his feel- 
ings were when a new world of poetry opened upon him, through 
Chapman's " Homer," — as to the astronomer, 

" Wlien a new planet swims into his ken." 
Among poetry there was none which made a stronger impression 
than our simple old ballad, which she and a sister near her own 
age, and of similar taste and temperament, used to revel in, 
making at the same time many young attempts in epic, dramatic, 
and ballad poetry. In her twenty-first year she was married to 
William Howitt, a gentleman well calculated to encourage and 
promote her poetical and intellectual taste, — himself a Poet of con. 
siderable genius, and the author of various well-known works. 
We have reason to believe that her domestic life has been a singu- 
larly happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Howitt spent the year after their 
marriage in Staffordshire. They then removed to Nottingham, 
where they continued to reside till about twelve months ago ; and 
are now living at Esher, in Surrey. 



doU H W I T T. 

Mary Howilt published jointly with her husband two volumes 
of poems, "The Forest Minstrel," in 1823; and "The Desolation 
of Eyam, and Other Poems," in 1827. In 1834, she published 
" The Seven Temptations," a series of dramatic poems ; a work 
wliich, in other titnes, would have been alone sufficient to have 
made and secured a very high reputation : her dramas are full of 
keen perceptions, strong and accurate delineations, and powerful 
displays of character. She is now preparing for the press a collec- 
tion of her most popular ballads, a class of writing in which she 
greatly excels all her contemporaries ; many of them are favoura- 
bly known to the public through the periodicals in which, at vari- 
ous times, they have appeared. She is also well known to the 
young by her " Sketches of Natural History," " Tales in Verse," 
and other productions written expressly for their use and pleasure. 
Mrs. Howitt is distinguished by the mild, unaffected, and con- 
ciliatory manners, for which " the people called Quakers" have 
always been remarkable. Her writings, too, are in keeping with 
her character : in all there is evidence of peace and good will : a 
tender and a trusting nature ; a gentle sympathy with humanity ; 
and a deep and fervent love of all the beautiful works which the 
Great Hand has scattered so plentifully before those by whom they 
can be felt and appreciated. She has mixed but little with the 
world : the home-duties of wife and mother have been to her pro- 
ductive of more pleasant and far happier results than struggles for 
distinction amid crowds; she has made her reputation quietly but 
securely ; and has laboured successfully as well as earnestly to in- 
culcate virtue as the noblest attribute of an English woman. If 
there be some of her contemporaries who have surpassed her in the 
higher qualities of poetry, — some who have soared higher, and 
others who have taken a wider range, — there are none whose 
writings are better calculated to delight as well as inform. Her 
poems are always graceful and beautiful, and often vigorous ; but 
they are essentially feminine : they afford evidence of a kindly and 
generous nature, as well as of a fertile imagination, and a safely, 
cultivated mind. She is entitled to a high place among the Poets 
of Great Britain ; and a still higher among those of her sex by 
whom the intellectual rank of woman has been asserted without 
presumption, and maintained without display. 



HOWITT. 

AN OLD man's story. 

i 

There was an old and quiet man, 
And by the fire sate he ; 
" And now," he said, " to you I'll tell 
A dismal thing-, which once befell 
In a ship upon the sea. 

" 'Tis five-and-fifty years gone by, 
Since, from the river Plate, 
A young man, in a home-bound ship, 
I sailed as second mate. 

" She was a trim, stout-timbered ship, 
And built for stormy seas, 
A lovely thing on the wave was she, 
With her canvass set so gallantly 
Before a steady breeze. 

" For forty days, like a winged thing. 
She went before the gale. 
Nor all that time we slackened speed, 
Turn'd helm, or alter'd sail. 

" She was a laden argosy 

Of wealth from the Spanish main. 
And the treasure hoards of a Portuguese 
Returning home again. 



332 H W I T T. 

" An old and silent man was he, 

And his face was yellow and lean ; 
In the golden lands of Mexico 
A miner he had been. 

" His body was wasted, bent, and bowed 
And amid his gold he lay ; 
Amid iron chests that were bound with brass, 
And he watched them night and day. 

" No word he spoke to any on board, 
And his step was heavy and slow ; 
And all men deemed that an evil life 
He had led in Mexico. 

" But list ye me— on the lone high seas, 
As the ship went smoothly on, 

It chanced, in the silent, second watch, 
I sate on the deck alone ; 

And I heard, from among those iron chests, 
A sound like a dying groan. 

" I started to my feet, and, lo ! 
The captain stood by me ; 
And he bore a body in his arms, 
And dropped it in the sea. 

" I heard it drop into the sea, 

With a heavy, splashing sound, 
And I saw the captain's bloody hands 

As he quickly turned him round ; 
And he drew in his breath when me he saw 
Like one convulsed, whom the withering awe 
Of a spectre doth astound. 



H W I T T. 383 

" But I saw his white and palsied lips, 

And the stare of his ghastly eye, 
When \\e turned in hurried haste away, — 

Yet he had no power to fly ; 
He was chained to the deck with his heavy guilt, 

And the blood that was not dry. 

" ' 'Twas a cursed thing,' said I, ' to kill 
That old man in his sleep ! 
And the plagues of the storm will come from him 
Ten thousand fathoms deep ! 

" ' And the plagues of the storm will follow us. 
For heaven his groans hath heard !' 
Still the captain's eye was fixed on me, — 
But he answered never a word. 

" And he slowly lifted his bloody hand. 
His aching eyes to shade ; 
But the blood that was wet did freeze his soul, 
And he shrinked like one afraid. 

" And even then — that very hour 

The wind dropped, and a spell 

Was on the ship, — was on the sea ; 

And we lay for weeks, how wearily, 

Where the old man's body fell. 

" I told no one within the ship 
That horrid deed of sin ; 
For I saw the hand of God at work, 
And punishment begin. 



384 H AV I T T. 

" And when they spoke of the murdered man, 
And the El Dorado hoard, 
They all surmised he had walked in dreams, 
And had fallen overboard. 

" But I, alone, and the murderer, 
That dreadful thing did know, 
How he lay in his sin — a murdered man, 
A thousand fathom low. 

" And many days, and many more 
Came on, and lagging sped ; 
And the heavy waves of that sleeping sea 
Were dark, like molten lead. 

" And not a breeze came, east or west, 
And burning w^as the sky ; 
And stifling was each breath we drew 
Of the air so hot and dry. 

" Oh me ! there was a smell of death 
Hung round us night and day ; 
And I dared not look in the sea below 
Where the old man's body lay. 

" In his cabin, alone, the captain kept, 
And he bolted fast the door ; 
And up and down the sailors walked. 
And wished that the calm was o'er. 

" The captain's son was on board with us, — 
A fair child, seven years old. 
With a merry look, that all men loved, 
And a spirit kind and bold. 



H W 1 T T. 385 

" I loved the child, — and I took his hand, 
And made him kneel, and pray 
That the crime, for which the calm was sent, 
Might be purged clean away. 

" For I thought that God would hear his prayer, 
And set the vessel free ; 
For a dreadful thing it was to lie 
Upon that charnel sea. 

" Yet I told him not wherefore he prayed, — 
Nor why the calm was sent ; 
I would not give that knowledge dark 
To a soul so innocent. 

" At length I saw a little cloud 
Arise in that sky of flame ; 
A little cloud, — but it grew, and grew, 
And blackened as it came. 

" And we saw the sea beneath its track 
Grow dark as the frowning sky : 
And water-spouts, with a rushing sound, 
Like giants, passed us by. 

" And all around, 'twixt sky and sea, 
A hollow wind did blow ; 
And the waves were heaved from the ocean depths. 
And the ship rocked to and fro. 

" I knew it was that fierce death calm 
Its horrid hold undoing ; 
And I saw the plagues of wind and storm 
Their missioned work pursuing. 
33 



H W I T T. 

" There was a yell in the gathering winds, 
A groan in the heaving sea ; 
And the captain rughed from the hold below, 
But he durst not look on me. 

" He seized each rope with a madman's haste, 
And he set the helm to go ; 
And every sail he crowded on 
As the furious winds did blow. 

" And away they went, like autumn leaves 
Before the tempest's rout ; 
And the naked masts with a crash came down, 
And the wild ship tossed about. 

" The men to spars and splintered boards 
Clung, till their strength was gone ; 
And I saw them from their feeble hold 
Washed over, one by one. 

" And 'mid the creaking timber's din, 
And the roaring of the sea, 
I heard the dismal, drowning cries, 
Of their last agony. 

" There was a curse in the wind that blew, — 
A curse in the boiling wave ; 
And the captain knew that vengeance came 
From the old man's ocean grave. 

" And I heard him say, as he sate apart, 

In a hollow voice and low, 
' 'Tis a cry of blood doth follow us, 

And still doth plague us so !' 



H W I T T. 387 

" And then those heavy iron chests, 
With desperate strength took he, 
And teh of the strongest mariners 
Did cast them into the sea. 

" And out from the bottom of the sea, 

There came a hollow groan ; 
The captain by the gunwale stood. 

And he looked like icy stone, — 
And he drew in his breath with a gasping sob, 

And a spasm of death came on. 

"And a furious boiling wave rose up. 
With a rushing, thundering roar ; 
I saw the captain fall to the deck, — 
But I never saw him more. 

" Two days before, when the storm began, 
We were forty men and five ; 
But ere the middle of that night 
There were but two alive. 

" The child and I, we were but two. 

And he clung to me in fear; 
Oh ! it was pitiful to see 
That meek child in his misery, 

And his little prayers to hear ! 

" At length, as if his prayers were heard, 

'Twas calmer, — and anon 
The clear sun shone, and warm and low, 
A steady wind from the west did blow, 

And drove us gently on. 



388 H W I T T. 

" And on we drove, and on we drove, 
That fair young child and I ; 
But his heart was as a man's in strength, 
And he uttered not a cry. 

" There was no bread within the wreck. 
And water we had none ; 
Yet he murmured not, and cheered me 

When my last hopes were gone : 
But I saw him waste, and waste away, 
And his rosy cheek grow wan. 

" Still on we drove, I knew not where. 
For many nights and days ; 
We were too weak to raise a sail, 
Had there been one to raise. 

" Still on we went, as the west wind drove. 
On, on, o'er the pathless tide ; 
And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death. 
And the child was at my side. 

" And it chanced, as we were drifting on 
Amid the great South Sea, 
An English vessel passed us by, 

That was sailing cheerily ; 
Unheard by me, that vessel hailed 
And asked what we might be. 

" The young child at the cheer rose up, 
And gave an answering word, — 
And they drew him from the drifting wreck 
As light as is a bird. 



HOWITT. 

• They took him gently in their arms, 

And put again to sea : 
' Not yet ! not yet !' he feebly cried, 

' There was a man with me.' 

' Ag-ain unto the wreck they came. 

Where, like one dead, I lay. 
And a ship-boy small had strength enough 
To carry me away. 

' Oh, joy it was when sense returned. 

That fair, warm ship to see ; 
And to hear the child within his bed 
Speak pleasant words to me ! 

' I thought at first that we had died, 

And all our pains were o'er. 
And in a blessed ship of Heaven 
Were sailing to its shore. 

' But they were human forms that knelt 

Beside our bed to pray ; 
And men, with hearts most merciful. 
Did watch us night and day. 

' 'Twas a dismal tale I had to tell. 

Of wreck and wild distress ; 
But, even then, I told to none 
The captain's wickedness. 

' For I loved the boy, and I could not cloud 

His soul with a sense of shame ; 
'Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast 
A sinless orphan's name ! 
33* 



H W I T T. 

So he grew to be a man of wealth, 
And of honourable fame. 

'And in after years when he had ships, 
I sailed with him the sea, — 

And in all the sorrow of my life 
He was a son to me ; 

And God hath blessed him every where 
With a great prosperity." 



MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. 

Dwellers by lake and hill ! 
Merry companions of the bird and bee ! 

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, 
With unconstrained step and spirit free ! 

No crowd impedes your way, 
No city wall proscribes your further bounds ; 

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray 
The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. 

The sunshine and the flowers, 
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade ; 

The pleasant evening, — the fresh, dewy hours. 
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd : 

The gray and ancient peaks, 
Round which the silent clouds hang day and night ; 

And the low voice of water, as it makes. 
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight. 



HOWITT. 391 

These are your joys ! Go forth, — 
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power ; 

For in His spirit God has clothed the earth, 
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower. 

The voice of hidden rills 
Its quiet way into your spirits finds ; 

And awfully the everlasting hills 
Address you in their many-toned winds. 

Ye sit upon the earth 
Twining- its flowers, and shouting, full of glee ; 

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, 
Moulds your unconscious spirit silently. 

Hence is it that the lands 
Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons ; 

Whom the world reverences, — the patriot bands 
Were of the hills like you, ye little ones ! 

Children of pleasant song 
Are taught within the mountam solitudes ; 

For hoary legends to your wilds belong. 
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. 

Then go forth, — earth and sky 
To you are tributary ; joys are spread 

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie 
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread ! 



6\}'Z HERVEY. 

Tho3ias K. Hervey was born on the banks of the river Cart, near 
tlie town of Paisley, in Scotland. He is the oldest of his family 
by his father's second marriage, and was taken to Manchester by 
his parents while yet an infant. In this town he resided many 
years, and passed a portion of them in the office of a solicitor there, 
as a preparatory step in his education for the bar : he was entered at 
one of the inns of court ; but has not yet been " called ;" having 
been compelled, probably, like most literary men, to the sacrifice 
of future prospects to present necessities. 

Mr. Hervey obtained a considerable portion of his reputation by 
contributing to various periodical works. A few years ago, he 
collected his poems into a volume, under the title of " the Poetical 
Sketch Book ;" it consists chiefly of short pieces ; their merit has 
been largely acknowledged, — and, although his appearance among 
the Poets was at an unfavourable period, his work has obtained 
considerable popularity. Mr. Hervey has also published the " Book 
of Christmas," a work which displays great industry and research ; 
a poem, the "Devil's Progress," written after the model of the 
celebrated lines attributed to Southey and Coleridge ; and the 
" Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," which are introduced by an 
essay, giving a sketch of the history of that art from the earliest 
times. They were issued in numbers, but have recently been 
formed into a volume ; they contain the choicest specimens of the 
British school, and each is accompanied by a poem from the pen 
of the Editor. We apprehend this publication was not successful; 
and regret it. While every other class of art has prospered in this 
country, but little encouragement has been given to sculpture. 
With two or three exceptions, its professors have been compelled 
to limit their chisels to " the making of busts ;" and where loftier 
attempts have been tried, they have been rarely profitable. Mr. 
Hervey's volume was calculated to direct towards it the attention 
of wealthy patrons. It was produced in a manner creditable to 
all parties ; and could not fail to impress upon the public a more 
just estimate of the genius of our artists. Hitherto, their pecu- 
niary advantages have been for the most part derived from the 
dead. The churches, and not the palaces, of England have been 
made the depositories of their works. A few noblemen have indeed 
given " commissions," and the good Earl of Egremont has filled 



HERVEY. 393 

every nook of his galleries with them ; but efforts, either private 
or public, to render the art prosperous in this country, have been 
unhappily rare. . 

The poetry of Mr. Hervey may not be of the highest order ; but 
among the minor Poets of England he must hold a foremost rank. 
His imagination is rich and vigorous ; and his versification exceed- 
ingly easy and graceful. He has avoided the error into v^hich so 
many of his contemporaries have fallen, — the effort to be effective 
by the sacrifice of nature, under the idea that the artificialities and 
affectations of the old Poets were the secrets of their success, — 
forgetting that imitation is always perilous ; and that it is far less 
easy to copy perfections than defects. Within the last twenty 
years, thousands of " Books of Poems" have issued from the press. 
It would be difficult to find a dozen that have made their way 
beyond the friendly and indulgent circles of their respective au- 
thors. Yet half a century ago, a large proportion of them would . 
have been received with favour, and have conferred repute. The 
public is usually correct in its judgment: few recent poetical pro- 
ductions are addressed to the heart ; and the mere act of dealing 
with a subject in verse, although it may have the aid of knowledge 
and fancy, is insufficient to render a poem popular. It would, 
however, be easy to select from the numerous poetical productions 
to which we refer, and which have been consigned to unmerited 
oblivion, specimens of merit sufficient to form a valuable and 
interesting volume ; and the Editor who undertakes such a task, 
will render good service to literature. That which Mr. Sergeant 
Talfourd describes as the " freezing effect of the scientific spirit 
of the age," has had its depressing influence upon the best and 
greatest of our Poets ; it has completely destroyed the ambitious 
hopes of those who were seeking afler distinction. We trust, 
nevertheless, that a time will come when in poetry, as in art, some 
portion of celebrity may be attained by all who deserve it. 

If we must place Mr. Hervey somewhat below the great 
" makers," whose names precede his in this volume, we must 
place him considerably above the host of minor Poets, of whom 
our age has been so amazingly fertile. Some of his productions, 
indeed, verge upon the higher standard ; and none of them are 
much beneath it. 



HERVEY. 



A TWILIGHT LANDSCAPE. 



Oh ! come at this hour, love ! the daylight is gone, 

And the heavens weep dev^r on the flowers ; 

And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan. 

Through the shade of the eglantine bowers : 

For, the moon is asleep on her pillow of clouds. 

And her curtain is drawn in the sky ; 

And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds. 

Falls faint on the ear — like a sigh : 

The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright 

For a heart that has suffered like mine ; 

And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light, 

To a spirit so broken as thine ! 

The birds, as they mingled their music of joy. 

And the roses that smiled in the beam. 

Would but tell us of feelings for ever gone by, 

And of hopes that have passed like a dream ! 

And the moonlight, — pale spirit ! would speak of the time 

When we wandered beneath its soft gleam. 

Along the green meadows, when life was in prime. 

And worshipped its face in the stream : 

When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path as bright, 

And as cloudless, to fancy's young eye. 

As the star-spangled course of that phantom of light. 

Along the blue depths of the sky ! 

Then come in this hour, love ! when twilight has hung 

Its shadowy mantle around ; 



HERVEY. 395 

And no sound, save the murmurs that breathe from thy tongue, 

Or thy footfall — scarce heard on the ground ! 

Shall steal on the silence, to waken a fear, 

When the sun that is gone, with its heat. 

Has left on the cheek of all nature a tear, — 

Then, hearts that are broken should meet ! 



THE CONVICT SHIP. 

Morn on the waters ! — and, purple and bright. 

Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ! 

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun. 

See the tall vessel goes gallantly on : 

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, 

And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale ! 

The winds come around her, in murmur and song. 

And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along ! 

Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds, 

And the sailor shigs gaily, aloft in the shrouds ! 

Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, 

Over the waters — away, and away. 

Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part. 

Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! 

Who— as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, 

Music around her, and sunshine on high — 

Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow. 

Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking, below ! 

Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on high. 
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky ; 
Treading its depths, in the power of her might. 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light. 
Look to the waters, — asleep on their breast. 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest 1 



oyO HERVEY. 

Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain ! 
Who — as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep — as the moon in the sky, 
A phantom of beauty ! could deem, with a sigh. 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin. 
And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within ! 
Who, as he watches her silently gliding, 
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, — 
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever ! 
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, 
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ! 

'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along. 

Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song ! 

Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world, 

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled ; 

All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, — 

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs ! 

Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 

As the smiles we put on — just to cover our tears ; 

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know. 

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below ; 

While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore 

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. 



I AM ALL ALONE. 

I AM all alone ! — and the visions that play 
Round life's young days, have passed away ; 



H E R V E Y. 397 

And the song-s are hushed that gladness sings, 
And the hopes that I cherished have made them wings ; 
And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone, 
And I sit in my sorrow, — and all alone ! 

And the forms which I fondly loved are flown, 
And friends have departed — one by one ; 
And memory sits whole lonely hours. 
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers, 
And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near 
To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear ! 

And the home of my childhood is distant far, 

And I walk in a land where strangers are ; 

And the looks that I meet, and the sounds that I hear. 

Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my ear ; 

And sunshine is round me, which I cannot see, 

And eyes that beam kindness, — but not for me ! 

And the song goes round, and the glowing smile, — 

But I am desolate all the while ! 

And faces are bright, and bosoms glad, 

And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad ! 

And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom, 

While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom ! 

I wander about, like a shadow of pain, 
With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my brain ; 
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladness, — 
Oh ! how it grates on a bosom all sadness ! 
So I turn from a world where I never was known. 
To sit in my sorrow, — and all alone ! 
34 



H E R V E Y. 



SHE SLEEPS, THAT STILL AND PLACID SLEEP. 

She sleeps — that still and placid sleep — 
For which the weary pant in vain ; 

And, where the dews of evening weep, 
I may not weep again ; 

Oh ! never more upon her grave, 

Shall I behold the wild-flower wave ! 

They laid her where the sun and moon 
Look on her tomb with loving eye, 

And I have heard the breeze of June 
Sweep o'er it — like a sigh ! 

And the wild river's wailing song 

Grow dirge-like, as it stole along ! 

And I have dreamt, in many dreams, 
Of her who was a dream to me ; 

And talked to her, by summer streams, 
In crowds, and on the sea, — 

'Till, in my soul she grew enshrined, 

A young Egeria of the mind ! 

'Tis years ago ! — and other eyes 

Have flung their beauty o'er my youth ; 

And I have hung on other sighs, 
And sounds that seemed like truth ; 

And loved the music which they gave. 

Like that which perished in the grave. 

And I have left the cold and dead, 
To mingle with the living cold ; 

There is a weight around my head, 
My heart is growing old ; 



HERVEY. 

Oh ! for a refuge and a home, 
With thee, dear Ellen, in thy tomb ! 

Ag-e sits upon my breast and brain, 
My spirit fades before its time ; 

But they are all thine own again. 
Lost partner of their prime ! 

And thou art dearer, in thy shroud. 

Than all the false and living crowd ! 

Rise, gentle vision of the hours, 

Which go — like birds that come not back 
And fling thy pale and funeral flowers 

On memory's wasted track ! 
Oh ! for the wings tliat made thee blest, 
To " flee away, and be at rest !" 



400 BAYLY. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly was born in the city of Bath. His family 
connexions are good ; his paternal grandmother was the sister of 
Lord Delamer, and Sir George Thomas, Bart., was his maternal 
grandfather. He is related to the present Earl of Stamford and 
Warrington, the Earl of Erroll, and Sir George Thomas. His 
principal amusement at ten years of age was writing verses and 
dramas; and being an only child, and his mother having a con- 
siderable fortune, he rejected all professional pursuits, and culti- 
vated the talents which had so early developed themselves. In 
1826, he married Helena Becher Hayes, a near relation of Sir 
William Becher, Bart., and shortly afterwards retired to a cottage 
on the Sussex coast : but in 1831, an almost overwhelming misfor- 
tune befell him. His father, from some unexplained cause, became 
embarrassed, and left the country ; and the income settled upon 
Haynes Bayly at his marriage, has never since been paid. Litera- 
ture, which had hitherto been his amusement, now became essential 
to his comfort. If his songs were collected, they would fill many 
large volumes. He is also the author of several dramas, — "Per- 
fection," " Sold for a Song," the " Witness," and some others have 
not only been successful in the metropolis, but have been acted in 
almost every theatre in the kingdom. He has been an extensive 
contributor of prose essays and stories to many of the periodical 
works ; and may be placed among the men of talent who are also 
men of industry. 

The songs of Mr. Bayly have attained a popularity almost 
without precedent in our time. With the exception of Moore, no 
living writer has been so eagerly sought after by musical compo- 
sers ; his words have become familiar under almost every roof in 
the kingdom ; and it would be difficult to pass through a street of 
the metropolis, or of any of the provincial towns, without finding 
some of them the stock in trade of the ballad-singer. Such large 
and unqualified success could have been achieved only by a man of 
considerable skill and ability ; and, although attempts have been 
made to show that the poetry of Haynes Bayly is meretricious, 
the fact that it is universally admired and enjoyed by the public, is 
a proof of its merit which a volume of objecting criticism cannot 
destroy. The secret of his success — if secret it can be called — is 
that in all his writings he is natural : his songs make their way 
to the heart ; they are understood and appreciated by the unlearned 5 



BAYLY. 401 

they speak the thoughts and describe the feeUngs of the great mass 
of mankind, who have no idea of relating their woes and pleasures 
in splendid diction, or delicately turned sentences. He is tender, 
as well as natural ; and graceful, as well as smooth : his lines run 
'* glibly" on ; and the memory easily receives and retains them. 
If tried by a severe standard, Mr. Bayly cannot be ranked among 
the higher and enduring Poets of Great Britain : he has essayed 
nothing of any length ; many hundred songs have, we believe, 
been written by him ; but none of them have a more ambitious 
object than to produce gratification by the expression of some 
simple sentiment in pleasing verse ; and perhaps a bolder attempt 
would be a failure. If, however, to have greatly and generally 
succeeded in a class of composition, by no means of small value, 
entitles him to a distinguished place among the Poets of his 
country, Mr. Bayly may fearlessly claim it. He has not only 
excelled in producing strains of deep feeling and fine sentiment, — 
in some of his poems there is a vein of arch playfubiess and 
pointed humour that would have secured for him a reputation, had 
his verses never been associated with music. It is, however, im- 
possible to deny that much of his fame has arisen from this associa- 
tion : he has thus, fortunately, obtained the means of introduction 
where perhaps it would have been impossible for him otherwise to 
have been known ; but his merit as a writer must have been per- 
ceived without such co-operation ; with it, it has been eflfective to 
a degree almost unparalleled : so universally, indeed, are the songs 
of Haynes Bayly heard in the metropolis — in its drawing-rooms 
and in its streets — that the ear has become absolutely surfeited with 
them ; he has had to endure the dangerous consequences of too 
much popularity. 

It will be well if Poets of stronger mind and richer fancy will 
inquire how it is that the poems of Haynes Bayly have obtained 
such general favour : the inquiry may tempt them to write below 
rather than above the standard of excellence, when they design to 
address themselves to the mass. It would be easy to point out 
many who have composed " songs" — exquisitely perfect as poems 
— which few ever think of singing. They may be read with de- 
light by those who can appreciate their superiority ; but if they fail 
in touching the heart, they never make their way among a people. 



BAYLY. 



THE GIPSIES HAUNT. 



Why curls the blue smoke o'er the trees 1 
What words are borne upon the breeze 1 
Some cottage in yon lonely glen 
Lies nestled from the eyes of men ; 
Unconsciously we've wandered near 
Some rural play-place, for I hear 
The sound in which my heart rejoices, 
The melody of infant voices. 

Alas ! in that green nook we see 
No dwelling-place of industry; 
No dame, intent on household cares, 
The neat but frugal meal prepares ; 
No sire, his labour o'er, will come 
To brighten and to share her home ; 
No children from their mother learn 
An honest way their bread to earn. 

The gipsies, wild and wandering race. 
Are masters of the sylvan chase ; 
Beneath the boughs their tents they raise, 
Upon the turf their faggots blaze : 
In coarse profusion they prepare 
The feast obtained, — how, when, and where 1 
While swarthy forms, with clamour loud. 
Around the smokino- cauldron crowd. 



BAYLY. 403 

Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass, 
To intercept us as we pass ; 
Upon your right hand let her look, 
And there she'll read, as in a book, 
Your future fortune ; and reveal 
The joy or wo you're doomed to feel : 
Your course of love she will unfold, 
If yo-i the picture dare behold ! 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, 
Sits gazing on her lovely face, — ay, lovely even now ; 
Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care"? 
Why steals that tear across her cheek] she sees her first 
gray hair. 

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace ; 
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face ; 
Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gaily 

trip. 
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip. 

The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than 

years, — 
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret 

tears ; 
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest, 
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot 

rest. 

But she hath been a happy wife : the lover of her youth 
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his 
truth : 



404 BAYLY. 

A sense of slight, — of loneliness, — hath never banished 

sleep : 
Her life hath been a cloudless one ; then wherefore doth she 

weep ] 

She looked upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they 

recall ] 
Oh ! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for 

ball; 
They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had 

learnt to check, 
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. 

She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through 

her hair, 
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there ; 
She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful 

touch 
That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so 

much. 

And now she sees her first gray hair ! oh, deem it not a crime 
For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of Time ! 
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will 

increase. 
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall 

cease. 

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane ; 

Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again — 

It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret. 

The spring for ever gone, — the summer sun so nearly set. 

Ah, lady ! heed the monitor ! thy mirror tells thee truth ; 
Assume the matrcyi's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth : 



BAYLY. 405 

Go ! bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look 

fair — 
'Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray 

hair ! 



THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 

I NEVER was a favourite, — 

My mother never smiled 
On me, with half the tenderness 

That blessed her fairer child : 
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, 

While fondled on her knee ; 
I've turned away, to hide my tears, — 

There was no kiss for me ! 

And yet I strove to please with all 

My little store of sense ; 
I strove to please, — and infancy 

Can rarely give offence : 
But when my artless efforts met 

A cold, ungentle check, 
I did not dare to throw myself 

In tears upon her neck ! 

How blessed are the beautiful ! 

Love watches o'er their birth ; 
Oh, beauty ! in my nursery 

I learned to know thy worth : 
For even there I often felt 

Forsaken and forlorn ; 
And wished — for others wished it too- 

I never had been born ! 



406 BAYLY. 

I'm sure I was affectionate ; 

But in my sister's face 
There was a look of love, that claimed 

A smile or an embrace : 
But when I raised my lip to meet 

The pressure children prize, 
None knew the feelings of my heart, — 

They spoke not in my eyes. 

But, oh ! that heart too keenly felt 

The anguish of neglect; 
I saw my sister's lovely form 

With gems and roses decked : 
I did not covet them ; but oft, 

When wantonly reproved, 
I envied her the privilege 

Of being so beloved. 

But soon a time of triumph came, — 

A time of sorrow too ; 
For sickness o'er my sister's form 

Her venomed mantle threw; 
The features, once so beautiful, 

Now wore the hue of death ; 
And former friends shrank fearfully 

From her infectious breath. 

'Twas then, unwearied day and night, 

I watched beside her bed ; 
And fearlessly upon my breast 

I pillowed her poor head. 
She lived ! — and loved me for my care,- 

My grief was at an end ; 
I was a lonely being once, 

But now I have a friend. 



BAYLY. 407 



UPON THY TRUTH RELYING. 

They say we are too young to love, — 

Too wild to be united ; 
In scorn they bid us both renounce 

The fond vows we have plighted. 
They send thee forth to see the world, 

Thy love by absence trying : 
Then go ; for I can smile farewell, — 

Upon thy truth relying. 

I know that Pleasure's hand will throw 

Her silken nets about thee ; 
I know how lonesome I shall find 

The long, long days without thee. 
But in thy letters there'll be joy ; 

The reading, — the replying: 
I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee, — 

Upon thy truth relying. 

When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by. 

In silent rapture gazing ; 
And, oh ! how proud of being loved 

By her they have been praising ! 
But should Detraction breathe thy name. 

The world's reproof defying : 
I'd love thee, — laud thee, — trust thee still,- 

Upon thy truth relying. 

E'en those who smile to see us part, 
Shall see us meet with wonder ; 

Such trials only make the heart 
That truly loves grow fonder. 



408 BAYLY. 

Our sorrows past shall be our pride, 
When with each other vying- : 

Thou wilt confide in him, who lives 
Upon thy truth relying. 



OH SAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW. 

Oh say not 'twere a keener blow. 

To lose a child of riper years, 
You cannot know a father's wo — 

You cannot dry a father's tears ; 
The girl who rears a sickly plant. 

Or cherishes a wounded dove, 
Will love them most while most they want 

The watchfulness of love ! 

Time must have changed that fair young brow, 

Time might have changed that spotless heart : 
Years might have brought deceit, — but now 

In love's confiding dawn we part ! 
Ere pain and grief had sown decay. 

My babe is cradled in the tomb, — 
Like some fair blossom torn away 

In all its purest bloom. 



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